


Reaping

by swishywillow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Reaping, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Middle Mellark love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishywillow/pseuds/swishywillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: "I never got to thank the boy with the bread. Now I never will." Katniss deals with the aftermath of Peeta's Reaping and eventual homecoming. Continues through series. HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. 
> 
> Special thanks to deathmallow and populardarling for feedback and just being awesome!

. . .

A girl with long black hair, so much like my own, walks stiffly up to the stage, hands clutching her dress, a broken look on her face. Somewhere else, close by, I hear weeping, the sound of a family dissolving; but all I feel is the tension slowly leaving my body. Safe for one more day.

 

When the girl's name had been called out — Grey Rankine, a pretty girl from the Seam who looked so much like me she could be my sister — I felt dizzy with relief. It is a terrible thing, to be happy knowing that this girl wouldbe facing inevitable death, but all I can think is,  _not me, not me, not me._ Two more years of this mockery, this torture, and I could be free. And Prim —  _Prim! —_ is safe, easing through her first year. Six more to go.

 

Effie Trinket babbles mindlessly on stage, oozing with enthusiasm.  _Such an honor! How fortunate! Lucky girl!_  She is utterly oblivious to the hush of the crowd, the wobbly girl on stage with tears pouring down her face, clearly on the verge of a breakdown; ignoring the sobs that permeate the air. She smiles toothily instead, moving towards the glass bowl full of names and futures and death, and excitedly announces, "Now it's time to select the lucky boy tribute!"

 

Across the crowd I see Gale, his face stiff and unmoving. My mind can be selfless now, the need to think only of myself is over, and my thoughts plead for him —  _not Gale, not Gale, not Gale_.

 

Effie's hand plunges into the glass bowl and carelessly grabs a slip of paper — how easy it is to send someone to their death — and zooms back to the microphone.

 

It's not Gale.

 

It's Peeta Mellark.

 

. . .

 

Everything had been going so well. I think back to this morning; the fresh goat cheese, hunting with Gale. Strawberries and fish and fresh bread, the promise of a happy meal back home once the Reaping is over. Almost like a holiday. Now the grim reality of the world we live in flickers back to life, and I am left reeling.  _Not him. Not Peeta._

 

Before I can blink away the shockwaves, before I can even think, he's on stage. His hands keep clenching and unclenching, his face void of emotion except for his eyes which contain a hopelessness I've only ever seen in the unfortunate animals I've found tangled in Gale's intricate snares. Effie Trinket dutifully asks for volunteers, but the crowd remains silent — volunteers are unheard of in District 12, where being reaped is a guaranteed death sentence.

 

Mayor Undersee trudges forward, reciting the painfully long Treaty of Treason; all the while my eyes are glued to the figure on stage, my stomach churning with emotion that I can't put a name to. Grey is weeping openly now, and I vaguely note that she will be written off by the Capitol as weak, scorned by the other competitors. She'll probably be dead within the first hour. Peeta, however, remains stoic, unmoving, eyes listlessly roving the crowd, probably searching for his family.

 

My heart clenches in my chest and I'm certain that I've forgotten how to breathe. Why the reaping of this boy should mean anything to me is beyond comprehension; there are no visible connections between us, nothing to bind my fate to his. Yet all I can think of is that cold, rainy night, drenched and defeated and starving. A red mark on his cheek, bread silently thrown in my direction. Two loaves of blackened bread pressed tightly to my chest, searing my skin. A dandelion in the spring, and then hope.

 

It's almost as if he can read my treacherous thoughts because, inexplicably, his eyes meet mine as if I'm the one he's been searching for all along. My hands shake and in my stomach I can feel the iron weight of a debt unpaid. I never got to thank the boy with the bread.

 

Now I never will.

 

. . .

. . . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will get significantly longer after this, although they will retain a sort of vignette-ish quality! I already have the first 13 chapters completed over on FF.net, and they will be gradually posted here over the next couple of weeks. The rating over there is lower; I'm thinking of adding more mature scenes over here later on, thus the difference.
> 
> Feel free to follow me over on tumblr as I liveblog my fanfiction addiction and other idiosyncrasies. Find me at swishywillow.tumblr.com!


	2. Chapter 2

. . .

 

The subdued relief is evident in the quiet chatter that starts as soon as the tributes leave the stage and the cameras finally shut off. The Mellarks and the Rankines along with friends of Grey and Peeta trudge slowly to the Justice Building, shoulders slumped with the weight of goodbye. Something tightens in my chest, feeling unresolved. Prim grabs my hand, a sad sort of half smile on her face. She knows how bittersweet this is now, to be the one of the children left alive. "Let's go home," she says, pulling me tenderly.

 

I get five minutes down the road with my mother and Prim before I see it on the side of the path — a bright yellow dandelion poking out with the other weeds, waving determinedly in the wind. I swallow hard.

 

Every chance I've had to thank him over the last four years dances before my eyes quickly: the day after, when our eyes connected in the school yard, right before the dandelions brought me back to life. Each day we've spent together in history class since we moved to the upper school, just two rows across and one seat down. The few mornings when Gale and I traded with his father and he'd come in quietly, more often than not dusted with flour and sweat from working with the ovens. Every afternoon during the lunch period we've shared for as long as I can remember, taking turns catching the other's stares every now and then for reasons I don't understand. Sometimes when we left the school yard at the same time until the road branched off and carried me to the Seam.

 

And now I can't think of why I never said it, those simple words.  _Thank you_. At first it was too hard, I was too prideful and he was too — the bruise on his cheek stopped me each time, or the way you couldn't see the bones of his wrists jaggedly pointing out like mine. And then as the days slipped into weeks and then years, it seemed impossible. Surely he doesn't even remember me now.

 

But I remember the way his eyes would follow me down the hallway sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking; how I would feel his stare as I carried my work to the teacher's desk in class. The way his eyes locked in on me today, as if I'm the one he was looking for in the crowd the whole time.

 

I look over at Prim — she is whole and lovely and perfect, and although she is a thin girl, her face isn't hollow and empty like other girls in her class. Because I can feed her, I can take care of her. Because Peeta helped me one night, for no reason other than — I don't know. For no reason at all.

 

Without warning, my eyes start to prick, which is almost more startling than anything that's happened today considering that I can't remember crying since my father died. The dandelion sways in the breeze still, tormenting me. I gently tug my hand from Prim's grasp.

 

I can't go home just yet.

 

. . .

 

The dash back to the Justice Building takes no time at all, and I'm shocked to find that it's only been twenty minutes since the Reaping, and Peeta's line of visitors is astonishingly long. I grimly think how short my own list of visitors would be if I were in his place, and wonder absently if he's saved more lives than just mine.

 

I'm too embarrassed to join the back of the line with people who have actually spoken to Peeta, so I duck into the bathroom, peeking out the door every few minutes. Delly Cartwright slips out of his room, eyes rimmed red from crying. My stomach clenches. A gaggle of boys from our year walk in after her, walking back out so quickly they surely didn't have time to do more than pat him on the back, or whatever it is boys our age do to show affection.

 

Briefly, I wonder where his witch of a mother is, utterly relieved that she seems to have already left. The rest of the line trickles in and out as his remaining moments in District 12 creep by. The last boy is escorted out by the Peacekeepers, and I curl my hands tightly into fists. It's now or never.

 

Luckily, one of the Peacekeepers guarding Peeta's door is Darius, a young redhead who frequents the Hob and is no stranger to stew made from the wild dogs that Gale and I have brought in to Greasy Sae. I catch my breath and walk over to him quietly. He's startled to see me here.

 

"I need to see him," I say softly, looking somewhere at his chin.

 

Darius's lips twist in a frown. "No time, Katniss. I've got to take him to the train station soon." My eyes dart up to meet his and he must see the need in them before I even say a word, because he relents. "Aw, shit. Five minutes," he sighs, ushering me to the door. When I hesitate, he groans and pushes me in.

 

Peeta turns around when I stumble in. By the way his mouth falls open, it's clear that whoever he was expecting to see, it most certainly wasn't the girl who sells his father squirrels. I can feel my face heat up.

 

Precious seconds are lost as we stare at each other. Peeta's eyes are watery, but his posture is strong, and a bag of cookies is clenched in his fist. His blue town eyes rove over me, utterly disbelieving.  _This is a mistake._

 

I step backwards, my back pressing against the door, and it seems to stir him from his shocked silence. He walks towards me, and it only takes him a few steps to cross the room. "Katniss?"

 

My name from his lips sounds so familiar, considering that I wasn't even sure he knew who I was. The cookies have fallen from his hand, crumbs spilling out of the bag onto the floor. His hands flutter around as if he doesn't know what to do with them. My fingers have turned icy cold, my body's typical response to danger.

 

More often than not, I'm about as eloquent as a fish, but words seem even farther away than usual. "I—"  _Thank you, just say thank you._  I open my mouth again, but Peeta speaks first.

 

"Did you know that my father wanted to marry your mom?" He blurts this out, and although my eyes are gazing down at my feet I can tell he's stepped closer, because the toes of his scuffed brown shoes are suddenly in my field of vision. My eyes glance up to him, shocked. Wordlessly, I shake my head.

 

He smiles ruefully. "It's true. The first day of school, he pointed you out to me." His eyes are warm and friendly and  _impossibly_  blue. "Your hair was in two braids, and you had on a red plaid dress." I certainly don't remember the first day of school, but I remember that my mother often fixed my hair into two neat plaits when I was much younger, and I remember Prim wearing a dress that matches his description.

 

Peeta continues. "He said to me, 'See that girl over there? I wanted to marry her mother, but she married a coal miner instead.' And I asked why anyone would marry a man from the Seam when she could marry someone like my dad."

 

I lick my lips. I have no idea why he's saying this, but I'm curious now. My mother's past is a closed book to me, so I ask hesitantly, "What did he say?" My voice is softer than usual, timid.

 

His smile is like the sun, and I can't believe he can manage to look so pure and perfect in such circumstances. "He told me it was because when your dad sang, even the birds stopped to listen."

 

For the second time in an hour my eyes sting with tears, and my vision blurs a little. "It's true, they do," I admit softly, "I mean, they did," and I can't tear my eyes away from his. He nods.

 

"Later that day in music class, the teacher asked for someone to sing the Valley Song, and your little hand jumped up. You sang for us, and…" he swallows, and I think his eyes dart down to my lips but it's hard to tell with tears in my eyes, "And even the birds stopped to listen. That's when I knew—"

 

"Knew what?" My voice isn't my own anymore, it's breathy and it matches my shallow breathing, and I think  _Peeta Mellark is going to kiss me_ , because he steps forward even closer, and his hands rest like feathers on my waist, and his face is getting closer, and

 

"Thank you," I shout out suddenly, moving quickly and ducking under his arm. "I just wanted to say thank you." My eyes have dried and my face is flushed, and for some reason beyond my comprehension I think I regret moving from where I had been pressed against the door. I decided a long time ago I wasn't going to get kissed by anyone ever, and even if I did it was almost inevitably going to be from Gale Hawthorne. But it feels wrongsomehow to have stopped him, and it might be because he's going to die soon anyway, but it might be because his hands were so warm and his eyes are so blue and I don't think I'll ever forget the way he looked with a bruise on his cheek for saving me all those years ago. He stays still for a moment then turns around, his eyes closed. He opens them and they land on me.

 

"For what," he asks, and his voice sounds strained now. Guilt floods through me again, but for a completely different reason.

 

I clear my throat. "For the bread," I tell him simply. "That night — you saved me. I just, I couldn't, all this time…thank you."

 

He's clearly puzzled. "The bread? Katniss, that was," he steps closer again, and I can't tell if I tense with nervousness or anticipation, "That was — I just couldn't see you like that, I just...I couldn't bear it."

 

"Why?" The question is an honest one and it slips out before I can stop it. His eyes widen and he steps closer again; I'm not even sure he knows he's doing it.

 

"You know why," he tells me, and his voice is heartbreakingly telling. "Katniss, you  _have_  to know why."

 

The truth breaks over me and cuts me like glass, and I do know. I think under any other circumstances I would never believe him, but he's been sentenced to death today, he has no reason to lie. I close my eyes for a long moment, fighting the urge to flee. Surely those five minutes Darius promised me were done hours ago, shouldn't he be here to collect me?

 

My eyes flutter open again and my vision is full of Peeta; he has stepped closer than ever before, and he smells like the bread he must have baked this morning with his father. This time his fingers reach up and brush my cheek, and I don't stop him as he leans forward. His lips press against mine softly, just once, and he pulls back, his eyes searching me. I'm not sure what he finds there but he leans back in, and this kiss is just a little more  _something_ , and I'm not sure how it happened but I'm fairly certain I'm kissing him back. My hands clutch his shoulders tightly and his fists my dress. Something builds in me, something warm that starts in my toes, and I pull him closer just as the door swings open.

 

"Time's—" We jump apart. Darius looks horrified and apologetic all at once. "—up."

 

I nod hastily. "Right." My eyes glance back to a devastated Peeta, and it baffles me that I could ever make him feel that way. Before I can talk myself out of it like I've been doing for years, my hand reaches out and cups his face. I don't know why I'm encouraging him, but it feels wrong to leave it like this.

 

"Peeta," my voice is stronger now, and my words are simple. "Please don't die."

 

His hand reaches up and covers mine. "I'll try," he promises solemnly. I nod once, then walk to the door to leave, but before Darius shuts the door I look back just once; the look on his face is like a knife to my gut.

 

I'm not sure what I've done, but it feels like the spark that was lit so long ago in the rain has turned into a raging fire. I know without a doubt that if he lives, one of us will get burned.

 

It's impossible to tell who just yet.

 

. . .

. . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: A bit of dialogue quoted directly from The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, pages 129-130. I do not own The Hunger Games.

. . .

 

Grey's interview is nothing spectacular, but it doesn't matter much to me because only one can come home and it's  _his_  I've been waiting days for anyway.

 

It is ironic that kissing Peeta sparked a fire between us, because he has been burning in public ever since. He blazed through the Capitol streets the night he arrived, set to flames by his masterful stylist, smiling his way into the hearts of the Capitol instantly. My heart, on the other hand, has yet to decide, although each time I remember the warmth that spread through my body starting in my toes it becomes a little more difficult to dismiss him.

 

Peeta steps on stage, handsome and large, his black suit accented with flames. His hair is golden and styled strangely, but his eyes are the same impossible shade of blue that glinted at me in the Justice Building —  _Katniss, you_  have  _to know why._  The crowd cheers and he waves cheerfully, causing a stirring through the crowd in District 12. So many of us have crammed into the square, gazing up at the large screens; Gale scoffs beside me, making no effort to hide his disdain for the way Peeta panders to the crowd, but I know (hope) that he is just being clever, making sponsors line up for him. Trying to survive.

 

He takes his seat across from Caesar Flickerman, whose hair and makeup is colored a ghastly pale blue this year, and his three minutes begin. It's hard for me to pay attention to the words that pour easily from his mouth as he talks about bread; instead, my eyes drink up everything about him, his broad shoulders, his easy smile. I wonder how much longer he will be beautiful and whole, like this. I wonder how long until I watch him die.

 

My mind has decided that I cannot make up my mind one way or another about Peeta yet; there is a significant chance he will never return, so where would I be if I decided I was hopeless over him? So I wait, remembering all the reasons I told Gale just days ago that I would never marry, never have children. Good reasons. Peeta laughs as Caesar sniffs him, claiming that he smells like roses, and my heart skips a beat. My hands are fisted so tightly my nails cut into my palms. Gale looks over at me suspiciously, as if he can read my thoughts.

 

I suddenly wish I'd been paying closer to the interview when I see Peeta's smile fall a little as he shakes his head, clearly feeling less confident than he did mere seconds ago. Caesar grins at him, pushes his shoulder lightly. "Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"

 

Oh.  _Oh._  That is what they have been discussing while I have been absorbing as much of Peeta as I can — his love life.  _Oh no._

 

Peeta bites his lip, obviously hesitant. "Well, there is this one girl," he confesses, and I feel a flood of heat in my cheeks. "I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember, but we never talked until the reaping."

 

Caesar smiles triumphantly. "Oh, ho! She came to visit you, then!"

 

Again Peeta hesitates, and I feel angry for him. To be put on the spot like this, paraded in front of the Capitol like a jewel on display, asked to give up the only things that are still truly  _his_ — the unfairness makes my stomach roll. "Come on, Peeta, we're dying to know," Caesar cajoles, and the audience roars their agreement."

 

Peeta sighs, and the bright lighting on stage makes it impossible to miss the pink tinting his cheeks. "She did," he says shortly. My eyes dart to Darius, who is stationed with a few other Peacekeepers near the Mayor; he is determinedly not looking at me.

 

Caesar crows victoriously. "And what did she say? Or, ah,  _do_?" He winks and the crowd shrieks with laughter, and I make a small sound in the back of my throat. I can feel Gale stare at me again but I resolutely ignore him, my eyes glued to the boy on screen.

 

"She—" Peeta looks reluctant to give away this precious bit of information, "She asked me not to die."

 

Caesar instantly becomes more serious, and the crowd around me in the square is so silent that I can hear the crickets singing in the dusk. "What did you tell her, Peeta?" He is all gentleness now, the coarse humor disappearing from his voice as if it was never there at all.

 

Peeta swallows hard, and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. "I told her I would try," he says grimly, all traces of the laughing boy from earlier gone. A surge of unexpected pride rushes through me, mixed with something else that I worry might be hope.

 

Caesar pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sure you did." The buzzer goes off and I exhale a sigh of relief. "Looks like we're out of time! Best of luck, Peeta Mellark, tribute from District 12." My ears ring with applause, not just from the screen but from the crowd all around me.

 

Because thanks to his score of 8 in training, and the endless sponsors he has surely lined up now, it seems that one of our tributes might just come home after all.

 

On the way home, Gale nudges my shoulder. "What was that all about," he asks curiously. I straighten the hem of Prim's shirt, not saying anything at all.

 

He leaves it for now.

 

. . .

 

When Grey makes it through the first day I'm relieved, because even though I want Peeta to come home I am not cruel enough to want her to die. When Peeta gets sliced across the chest by the wily girl from District 2 trying to save her, however, I'm livid. Angry at him for risking his life for hers, furious with Grey for not surviving, making his sacrifice worthless.

 

His sponsors sent him gauzy white bandages and a sticky looking green cream to heal him, but it doesn't make me forget the way blood poured from his chest and his face turned a sickly white, and I realized that I would miss him when he was dead.

 

He joined up with the sweet looking tribute from District 11, Rue, the next day; he was still a little weak from his injury so when they stumbled across each other in the forest he smiled at her gently and offered her a piece of jerky that he found in Grey's backpack.

 

The two of them sit in a cave tonight, and we watch once more in the square as a storm rages on in the arena. The rain is torrential but it gives them a merciful break from being hunted so I don't think either of them are complaining. There are only six of them now, the two monsters from District 2; a redhead from District 5 who has been shadowing the Careers, stealing their food without notice; Rue's huge district partner, who has been hiding out in a thick field; Peeta, and Rue. There is nothing interesting going on in the arena, no violence or bloodshed, so the cameras focus in on the bizarre alliance they've struck up that is sure to end badly.

 

Rue is curled up in a sleeping bag that Grey once slept in, while Peeta pretends to be comfortable as he leans against the hard cave wall, staring out into the rain. Rue hums quietly and Peeta smiles over at her.

 

"Do you like to sing?" he asks genially, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side.

 

Rue nods eagerly, explaining how she sings to the Mockingjays when she works in the orchards back home. Peeta closes his eyes as she demonstrates.

 

"You have a lovely voice," he tells her kindly, and she blushes, clearly enamored with him. She is so young, only twelve; too young to have ever really lived. Peeta will certainly be her first and last crush.

 

"Do you sing?" she asks hopefully. He shakes his head and laughs.

 

"Not a note," he says ruefully. "But I love to listen." He leans in towards her confidentially, resting his elbows on his knees, "I know a girl who sings so beautifully that all the birds stop and listen."

 

Rue notes the look on his face. "That girl you like?" Her voice is knowing, but unbegrudging. He nods thoughtfully, and as his eyes shut again I know he must be thinking of me, in my red dress, dark pigtails down my back. A shiver runs up my spine.

 

I wonder if he'll ever hear me sing again.

 

"Does she like you back?" The question is innocent, but I'm observant enough to note the way the gentle smile falls from his face and the corners of his mouth turn down. He's quiet for a long moment, and then he shakes his head. Something inside me cracks and I suck in my breath sharply.

 

"Not yet," he answers softly. "But I think she could someday." The broadcast fades out moments later, but I can still see him in my memory, blue eyes wistfully staring out at the rain as Rue hums herself to sleep.

 

It terrifies me, but I'm almost certain he was right.

 

. . .

. . .


	4. Chapter 4

. . .

 

That night I have a dream. Peeta and I sit in the meadow in the Seam, looking up at the shapes the clouds make. He holds my hand and smiles at me, pointing out rabbits and clovers and Effie Trinket's wig in the sky. It's not much, nothing at all really, but it's nice.

 

My mother is already up when I rise, filling a kettle with water. She looks over at me as I pad into the kitchen and tilts her head to the side, wrinkling her brow. Then she smiles gently at me. "It's nice to see you looking so happy, Katniss," she says simply.

 

I don't know what she's talking about until I catch my reflection in the small mirror — I'm smiling for the first time in weeks.

 

. . .

 

When I go to our usual meeting place on Sunday morning Gale is already there, sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. It's ironic, because I have been so looking forward to an escape for a few hours with my best friend but instead I find all of the turmoil that has been swirling around in my stomach written all over his face, the angry hunch of his shoulders.

 

"Gale?" I sit beside him and nudge his side. "Shouldn't we get started?"

 

He raises his head but doesn't look over at me; instead his eyes focus on the shadows littering the forest floor. Everything about him reminds me of a wounded animal, protective and angry and likely to attack. His eyes narrow as he stares down at the damp soil.

 

"I know," he tells me simply, his voice hollow. I don't know what he's talking about, but his tone warns me of danger. I can feel my throat closing up, my fingers turning cold, my body preparing to run.

 

"Know what?" My voice is casual but my arms protectively wrap around my torso. His eyes dart over to me for the first time this morning, and to my surprise they are rimmed with red.

 

"The girl that he's talking about.  _Mellark_ ," he spits his name out like a swear word, "The one he's so mad about, the one who came to see him. I know it's you."

_Oh._ My mouth opens but no words come out, like a fish struggling as it's pulled from the stream. "I—" I wince. My voice is weak, full of protest, and Gale scoffs.

 

"Don't lie, Katniss." His hands curl into fists and rest in his lap, trembling a little. "I  _know_."

 

I swallow slowly, feeling a lump in my throat, and I consider lying. Instead I ask, "How?" This guilt that sits like a brick at the base of my spine makes no sense to me. I haven't done anything wrong. Gale and I are just friends, just partners, and Peeta — it's none of Gale's business what happened that day.

 

Gale seems to think otherwise. "Darius. He told me—" He pauses as if the words are stuck in his throat. "He told me how you came to him, how you  _had to see him_. He told me how he walked in on you two—" He stops, pressing his lips into a tight line. "I didn't believe him, didn't want to, but. But it makes  _sense_ , the way you acted during his interview, the way you've acted every night of the games this year." He shakes his head, his forehead crumpled into lines he's too young to have. "You two…you two never even spoke. If he even came into the room when we were at the bakery you jumped like a rabbit, I thought — I don't know  _what_  I thought but it wasn't  _this_. I thought, I thought you and me—" His voice breaks for the first time, "I didn't know you could sing."

 

A thousand thoughts run through my head but none of them are right, none of them can make this better. I want to tell him about the bread, about the night Peeta saved me, how his mother hit him because of  _me_. About the dandelions. If there's anything Gale should be able to understand, it's the awfulness of being in someone's debt. But that kiss, the one that left me clinging to Peeta and has snuck in to my dreams repeatedly—that didn't have anything to do with debt, not really. I don't understand any of it, really, and kissing him because I owed him, that would be so easy. I wish it was true because it wouldn't have left me clenched in fear over a boy I barely know, questioning every resolution I've ever made. But even though I know so terribly little, I do know this: that moment cannot be boiled down to debt.

 

The silence stretches tight between us, ready to shatter at any moment, and I think of the day he asked me to run away with him.  _We could do it, you know. Run away._  "Gale—" I frown, reaching out and grabbing his forearm. "Gale, you're my best friend."

 

He sneers. "Obviously not if I couldn't even tell you were in love with Dough Boy."

 

"I'm not…" Anger coils like a spring in my gut. "I'm not in love with him, I just — it's complicated, I don't really know, and it's none of your business. You have no  _right_ —"

 

"No right?" Gale jumps to his feet, tensed like a snake ready to strike. "I have  _every_  right. Don't you wonder why Darius told me, Katniss? Don't you know what everyone thinks about us?"

 

I scowl stubbornly. "I don't care what everyone thinks."

 

For a second the anger falls away and there is my best friend, the same crushed look on his face as Peeta after I walked away. "But what about me? What about what  _I_  think?"

 

My hesitation must seem encouraging because he steps closer, a parody of the scene in the Justice Building just days ago, hands cupping my jaw. "It's always been you and me, Catnip," he whispers, before brushing his lipsagainst mine.

 

I can't help but compare it to the soft gentlesness of Peeta, his weight and his build pressed tightly against me as warmth tingled in my toes, and I know whatever this is with Gale, it's not right. His body is lean and urgent like mine, but it just doesn't belong. I place my hands on his chest and push him away gently, looking down at the ground and shaking my head. This isn't fair, he shouldn't be doing this to me, not when everything else is crumbling under me. I can't look at him while he ruins everything between us, while I break his heart. "No," I whisper. "You're my best friend, Gale, I swear, but not…I can't—" My voice cracks and I look up, only to see his face turn to stone. "I never meant for you to think that."

 

He doesn't say anything as he walks away, not even goodbye.

 

. . .

 

That night, staring up at the large screens in the center of District 12 with Prim pressed into my side, I stand as far away from Gale as possible.

 

The same violent rain in the arena that gave solace to Peeta and Rue destroyed all of the remaining Career's food supplies, and less than an hour after the storm ceases a feast is announced. Rue is a fair scavenger but the she and Peeta are both slowly starving to death, along with everyone else trapped in the arena. The Capitol isn't allowing any sponsor gifts to be sent in now, eager to lure the tributes to a final bloodbath.

 

The electricity doesn't cut off all night, and most of District 12 doesn't get any sleep at all as the vast majority huddles together in the square; school is canceled and the mines are closed as we all wait with baited breath to see how much longer our most successful tribute in years can hold out. Peeta and Rue pack up their supplies and head grimly to the Cornucopia, death hanging over their heads.

 

It's gruesome; although the clever redhead from District 5 hides inside the golden horn, she is quickly taken out by the same cruel girl who hurt Peeta early on, Clove from District 2, while her partner Cato zooms in on the huge boy from District 11 who has finally lumbered out of the fields, driven by hunger just like everyone else. He huddled in the long grass for two days in the rain, the jacket he came in with his only protection; he is weary and sleepless and sick from hunger, and his size is no longer an advantage. Cato quickly corners him, hacking away at him with his long sword.

 

Peeta and Rue hang back, but they can wait no longer; they must move while everyone else is preoccupied. They rush towards the backpacks of supplies waiting for them. Peeta reaches them first and it takes him a moment as he shrugs his over his shoulders to realize Rue hasn't made it yet. Then she shrieks and he sees her, pinned down by Clove. She screams his name until her throat is slit; then it's garbled and horrific, her large dark eyes filled with tears as she stares at her hero. Beside me, Prim sobs; everyone in the square mutters, unsettled by the terrible games.

 

What happens next is a blur; Cato and Thresh still battle. One minute Peeta is staring at Clove and Rue, clearly stunned. The next moment he's beside them, a huge rock in his hand, and Clove slumps over, crashing to the ground. Blood is pouring from a hole in her head. Rue makes a pained sound, not even human, but her eyes lock on Peeta one more time and she mouths ' _Run._ '

 

That's it — no goodbyes or anything sweet for the girl from District 11. Peeta looks over at the two boys, and Thresh is almost done, on the ground moaning as Cato stands over him with his sword.

 

There's nothing left to do but leave. He doesn't look back.

 

Over the next fifteen minutes three canons ring out as Rue bleeds out, Thresh is brutally killed, and Clove succumbs to death. Peeta presses the three middle fingers of his left hand to his mouth, lifting them up in the direction of the Cornucopia. A goodbye to someone he loved.

 

Peeta has made it to the final two; he has a fifty percent chance of coming home, of tracing my cheekbones with his fingers and asking me to sing for him and pulling me in for kisses and trying to teach me to fall in love. This is what I haven't admitted to hoping for since the day his name was pulled from the bowl.

 

I just wish it didn't come at such a price.

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry; clearly death scenes are not my strong suit.


	5. Chapter 5

. . .

 

It is late when I take Prim home; the square is still full of people staring with morbid fascination at the screens as commentators dissect Cato and Peeta, speaking of odds. I can't hear it, can't bear to listen as they slate Peeta to die after coming so far, when it is such a rich possibility. Cato is a brute, murderous and crazed. He has played a hand in at least half the deaths in these Games; sweet Peeta has only killed two, Clove and a boy named Marvel from District 1 when he caught him sneaking up on Rue, spear at the ready.

 

We walk down the long road to the Seam, Prim gripping my hand tightly as she blinks sleepily. Her sobs from earlier have left her sniffling.

 

I try to imagine the battle that will inevitably come in the morning, perhaps even tonight if Cato is eager and seeks Peeta out. I wonder what it would be like to watch him die, wonder how that would make me feel. It would probably be easier, if Peeta is dead. I could go on like I always had—taking care of Prim and my mother, hunting with Gale, no friends at school except the Mayor's quiet daughter. Eventually working in the mines, sliding underground in the elevator every day, sunlight and fresh air disappearing before my eyes. Dying like my father.

 

Without even realizing it, my grip has tightened on Prim's hand, squeezing hard. "Ow!" She winces and pulls her hand from my grasp. She looks up at me, eyes shadowed in the streetlights that remain on for once. "What's wrong, Katniss?"

 

My mouth twists into something that is supposed to be a smile. "Nothing, little duck. Just tired." I wrap my arm around her, squeezing her to me. The corners of her mouth dip down.

 

"Katniss," she starts hesitantly, cautious the way Gale is when he approaches animals who are still alive in his traps, "I know something's wrong. You've been—for weeks now, you just seem…sad. And scared. Is it because of the Games?"

 

I swallow hard. "The Games?"

 

She nods, eyes darting up to my face continually. "Ever since the Reaping, you've just been…different. Did something happen? You went back that day—"

 

A sigh rushes out before I can stop it. Prim is curious like a cat; it's amazing she hasn't asked about this before now. "Nothing happened, Prim," I lie. My arm drops from her shoulder, hanging by my side.

 

She stops walking and stares at me, rolling her eyes. "I'm not stupid, Katniss," and here in the dark with a scowl on her pretty face and her arms crossed determinedly, she resembles me more than usual. "Is this about Peeta?"

 

There is nothing in my mouth but I choke, coughing hard, my face turning red. It takes me a moment to recover, but when I do my voice croaks. "P-Peeta?" She keeps looking at me, the scowl remaining in place. "What does Peeta have to do with anything?"

 

She gives me a knowing look, and suddenly she is far older than twelve, no longer just my baby sister. I avert my eyes to the ground and turn, walking once more towards home. She huffs and follows behind, grabbing my hand again a moment later. "I know you just want to protect me," she whispers, swinging our hands back and forth, once more a little girl. "You always have. But I want to protect you, too." My heart squeezes.

 

And all of a sudden, this burden is too much for me to carry on my own. And even though it's embarrassing and confusing and she's only twelve, I tell her. Because there's no one else to tell, but there will always be Prim. My mouth opens and I tell her everything. My words are halting but she listens patiently as I tell her about the bread, the bruise, the dandelion that sparked my first solo trip to the woods. About the stares at school, the way I went to one of his wrestling matches last year but was too embarrassed to stay. My voice trembles with something that I can't identify as I tell her about the Reaping, about Darius, about the kiss. Asking him not to die. I continue my story all the way home, and she follows me into bed, curling into my side like a cat as I tell her about Gale, my fears that Peeta will die. My fears that he won't and I will have to face the consequences of him coming home.

 

We sit in silence for a few moments, my mother's soft breathing the only sound that fills the room. Then Prim giggles, softly at first, but slowly becoming uncontrollable. I shake her shoulder, irritated, but she just buries her head in my side again and giggles against my ribs. Suddenly I'm laughing too. Reason has flown out the window; I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard, or even laughed at all. We laugh so hard tears pour from our eyes — then inexplicably, I'm sobbing, genuinely crying for the first time in years. Prim pulls me closer, holding me, stroking my hair and whispering soft words in my ears.

 

After what seems like hours in the dark my sobs turn to sniffles, the tears drying from my eyes. I can't even summon the strength to be embarrassed; I feel emptier, lighter. Better.

 

Prim sighs loudly. "You really like him, don't you?"

 

"Prim, I—" She pokes me hard in my side, as if she can sense the protest about to come out. I close my mouth and think about him, blue eyes and soft lips, warm hands that rested on my hips and pulled me closer. The swooping in my stomach whenever I caught him staring at me in the cafeteria. His pale face as blood poured from his chest after Clove cut him. The way his voice cracked when he confessed -  _Katniss, you_ have _to know why._  Something that started before I even knew it, before that moment in the rain, when I sang the valley song in my little red dress.

 

"I do." My confession is a whisper, but she hears it. The truth of it washes over me. "I really do. I think I have for longer than I've even realized."

 

She sighs again, as if she finds it all too romantic. "Peeta seems so  _good_." I can hear the smile in her voice. "I knew he was talking about you, as soon as he talked about your singing." She hesitates, sitting up and resting on her elbow and looks at me. "What are you going to do when he gets back?"

 

" _If_  he gets back."

 

She frowns stubbornly. " _When_  he gets back. What are you going to do?"

 

I think about the way he kissed me in the Justice building, the warmth that still tingles my toes when I think about it too long. But that's probably not what she means. I shrug. "He'll probably be busy when he gets back for a while. He'll have parties and his family and—"

 

Prim pokes me again in the same spot, and I think I might bruise. "Katniss," she says slowly, as if our ages have reversed and I am the twelve year old, "Peeta confessed to the entire nation that he's crazy about you. He told you when he left he's been in love with you since you were five. You think he'll be too busy to see you?"

 

There's a lump in my throat that keeps me from speaking for a moment; when I do, my voice breaks and I'm worried I might cry again. "I don't know what to do, Prim. It's scary. I'm not good with — people."

 

I can see her smile in the dark room. "You're good with the people you love. You'll figure it out."

 

I frown. "I don't love Peeta, Prim. I — I think I care about him. Maybe even a lot. But I don't love him." I can't love him. I know what love does to people.

 

She just shakes her head. "Okay, Katniss. You don't love him." I think she's just humoring me, like she doesn't believe it's true.

 

After a while, her breathing evens out and she's asleep. But I'm awake for hours, until the sky lightens outside the window to a pinkish gray. I can't sleep, can't stop thinking about her question.

 

When he gets back —  _if_  he gets back, what am I going to do?

 

. . .

. . .


	6. Chapter 6

. . .

 

Almost the whole District has crammed into the square and its surrounding streets today, huddled together and staring at the screens. It is still early; the sun hovers low near the horizon, creeping slowly up. The crowd is tense and hushed. We can all feel how close Peeta is, how close we are to a year of provisions, a year of no hunger, and the people are terrified and exhilarated.

 

We see the mutts coming before they do, razor sharp teeth and claws; a commentator explains how they've been genetically designed to resemble the fallen tributes. A horrible reminder, a living nightmare. I feel myself gag a little, and the people around me whisper furiously. Prim squeezes her eyes tightly shut, looking horrified. There is a camera crew in our district today, lenses flashing in the rising sun, ready to capture our joy if Peeta wins or our sorrow if he falls.

 

Overnight Peeta hiked his way to the lake; he is obviously weary now, gray circles under his eyes as he slowly chews what is left from his backpack he retrieved from the feast. His eyes scan the tree line, waiting. His shoulders are curved inward, hunched and exhausted. The same commentator, a man from the Capitol with flamboyantly purple hair and silver tattoos that snake across his face, notes his hopelessness, derision clear in his voice. I don't think I've ever hated a stranger so passionately.

 

The mutts creep closer and closer to him, only about three miles away now; Cato stumbles upon them after just a few moments. He runs, runs just like they wanted him to, out of the forest and straight to the Cornucopia. They have driven the final two together, simple as that; let the bloodbath begin.

 

Peeta's eyes narrow when Cato breathlessly rushes out of the woods, leaping to his feet quickly. I want to scream at him, beg for him to escape, will him to hear my voice.  _Run, run, run._  He squares his jaw, and moves forward. When the mutts race out of the trees, biting at Cato's heels, his jaw drops. Clearly horrified. His eyes quickly dart around, looking for somewhere, anywhere to escape. They land on the Cornucopia, the same place Cato is heading.

 

The air in the square is hushed and tense. I tear my eyes away from the screen, trying hard to breathe normally. I catch Gale's eye, and for the first time since our confrontation he doesn't look away; the corner of his mouth is curved down in a frown. I don't know if he's upset about the mutts, or the fact that Peeta might live.

 

Cato pushes harder, his sword slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground. He hesitates but cannot turn back; retrieving the sword means death. He reaches the golden horn first, scrambling up, struggling to find a purchase on the smooth façade. He reaches the top quickly, struggling to catch his breath.

 

Peeta gets there seconds later, trying to clamber to the top. It has been clear the whole Games that he is no climber; one afternoon Rue tried to convince him to scale a tree with her to hide from the Careers. Ten minutes later they decided to try something else, and eventually came upon the cave. He struggles now, hands slipping on the slick surface, wincing as his feet stumble. My breath freezes in my chest, locked up tight in my lungs. Prim wraps her arms around me, burrowing in to my side. In a moment of weakness, I close my eyes.

 

I don't see Peeta get a grip on the metal Cornucopia. I don't see him reach the top just as the mutts reach him. I only hear his scream as one of the mutts jump up and grab his leg with its teeth. The sound of his nails on the metal as he is dragged down the side to his death. I feel my knees shake at the sound of his screams, the feral sounds the mutts are making. My eyes flash open just in time to Peeta kick his other leg wildly, kicking the mutt in the head.

 

The mutt holding him, one with blonde fur and startlingly green eyes, releases him for just a sliver of a second, but he manages to scramble back up. He crawls away from the edge, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His leg bleeds profusely and when he tries to stand it gives out on him. He sits in the middle of the horn, surrounded by mutts leaping on each side, trying to jump to where he is. He doesn't even see Cato come at him.

 

And then, before we can process what is happening, the two boys are locked together, wrapped around each other in a deadly scuffle. I remember Peeta coming in second in a wrestling tournament last year, losing only to his brother; but that was when he was whole and healthy. Now his leg is damaged and he is starved from long days in the arena.

 

The growls from the creatures on the ground seem to retreat for a moment as all we hear are grunts, the sound of punches and kicks flying. Peeta screams again when Cato presses down on his leg. Cato laughs manically, hands wrapping around his throat—Peeta's lovely blue eyes widen in fear, making tiny choking sounds. The purple haired man in the Capitol, taking up a little square in the screen, shakes his head and chuckles grimly. And I know the boy with the bread is going to die.

 

Then, suddenly—a flash of silver. Cato's grip loosens and he stumbles backwards almost in slow motion; the cameras zoom in to the small dagger sunk to the hilt in his side, lost somewhere in his ribs. It's the knife Rue had when she came upon Peeta, a useless tool to her considering it would require such close contact to make any sort of impact. She had beamed up at him, big brown eyes already so filled with trust, and handed it over to him just hours after joining up. I think we'd all completely forgotten about it but Peeta,  _brilliant_ Peeta, chose his timing perfectly.

 

Cato is gasping now, and blood bubbles from his mouth; one of his lungs has probably been punctured. Peeta looks sick at what he's done for a moment before Cato lunges at him again, hands grasping for his neck as he gurgles wetly, eyes shining with madness. Everything has shifted; Cato is still on top, but he is weaker, struggling for air. He hovers over Peeta, hands gripping his neck weakly, and blood drips from his mouth into those blue, blue eyes. Peeta screams again, a terrible, animal sound.

 

Cato's arms buckle and he collapses, crushing Peeta with his dead weight. I can feel Prim shaking against me, my shirt wet from her tears. A small child is screaming; I can see Vick clinging to Gale, Rory squeezing his hand, and I'm grateful Posy stayed home with our mothers.

 

Peeta lays there for a moment, gasping for air. Then, with what looks like great effort, he rolls Cato off of him. The hulking District 2 tribute is all but unconscious, but he is aware enough to cry out as he tumbles over the side, shrieking as the mutts tear into him. Peeta heaves himself up onto his elbows and retches, his breakfast quickly coming back up. The people in the square around me cry out, torn between horror and triumph.

 

Within moments, Cato is dead, but my eyes tightly shut it seems like eternity; my ears ring with the horrible cacophony of two boys dying, of Cato being ripped to pieces, of a canon firing. The screen splits in two, one half zooming in on Peeta, the other half showing screaming Capitol fans. Claudius Templesmith's voice, ever a constant.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Peeta Mellark! I give you - the tribute of District Twelve!" The shot fades out as Peeta is lifted out by a hovercraft, blood still pouring from his leg.

 

The crowd in the square erupts; celebration like this is unheard of in our District, but we seem to have a reason to celebrate. Everyone is hugging and shouting, dancing around giddily. Gale and his brothers make his way over to us, Rory making sure to sidle up to Prim and squeezing her tightly. Gale meets my gaze, gray eyes unreadable, before twitching his mouth up in a cool smile. "Guess we won't need to hunt as much now," he says simply. "At least for a year." There are no Peacekeepers around, and even if there were it would be impossible to hear over the roar of the crowd.

 

I swallow hard. "I think we'll always need to hunt," I tell him honestly. "This doesn't change that." I hope he understands me. His mouth tightens and he turns his eyes back to his brothers, but I think maybe we're okay. For the moment.

 

Prim turns her attention back to me, arms wrapping around me again. Her eyes are red and wet but there is a wide smile on her face.

 

"He's coming home, Katniss," she whispers excitedly. "He did it! Peeta's coming home!"

 

Despite her happy eyes and the merry atmosphere, I can feel the panic set in.

_He's coming home._

 

. . .

. . .


	7. Chapter 7

. . .

 

The night Peeta wins, I dream of mutts chasing me down, tearing after me through the forest. I am fast but they are faster; there is no turn I can take, no tree I can climb, nothing I can do to escape. Until finally, I reach my lake, the one my father took me to when I was young.

 

Peeta lies there by the water, white and stiff, blood pooling around him. His neck is purple. The boy from District 2 stands over him, his hands dripping red onto the katniss blossoms edging the lake.

 

"It's better this way," he tells me, and suddenly we are standing on top of the Cornucopia in the arena, and he is pushing me off. I'm falling, falling, straight into the clutches of a mutt with a golden blond coat of fur and impossibly blue eyes—

 

I scream and Prim wakes me up, wrapping her arms around me, whispers comforting nonsense in my ear.

 

I think of Peeta, miraculously alive and thousands of miles away; my heart slows its erratic beating. And I know the boy in my dream was wrong.

 

. . .

 

When I make my way into the woods the next morning and find Gale waiting for me in our usual spot, relief washes over me like a warm summer rain. Wordlessly we fall into our routine again, following the snare lines and collecting several rabbits and a stray fox. We make our way to the strawberry patch and fill up a bucket for the Undersees. A flurry of movement catches my eye — several squirrels dart around on the forest floor, whispering over the fallen leaves and dirt.

 

I haven't caught any squirrels since Peeta was reaped; it wasn't a conscious decision, but I couldn't bear to make my way to the bakery, meeting with his father in the room where we had so determinedly ignored each other for years. Right beside the spot where he saved my life. The weeks since Peeta's departure have been filled with dry, coarse bread made from tesserae grain. Prim has wrinkled up her cute little nose each day, but has known better than to complain.

 

Without thinking I pull out my bow and within minutes have killed three of the squirrels, each pierced perfectly in one eye. Gale knocks my shoulder with his. "Nice shot," he mutters gruffly. I smile at him, the first smile I've given him in ages and after a moment's hesitation he echoes it. We keep moving on, the silence infinitely more comfortable than before.

 

We make our way back into town an hour later after cleaning the kills, slipping under the fence and trudging towards the Hob. The atmosphere in town is cheerful and bustling despite the early hour; school is still canceled and the mines are closed in honor of Peeta's victory, and the entire district has a distinct holiday feel to it. The happiness is too tempting, too infectious and suddenly the words pour forth, easy conversation between two best friends — Posy's new loose tooth and her infinite excitement, the end of term quickly approaching, the prospect of rations coming in, Prim's hope to mate her goat, Lady. No mention of romance or Peeta or Gale's upcoming job in the mines, but the tension between us dissolves a little more with each step.

 

Even the Hob is more jolly than usual. Greasy Sae grins at us when we bring her the rabbits we aren't keeping and is slightly more generous than usual, giving us bowls of a nameless soup to go along with the coins she sets on the counter. While Gale trades for some wire for snares, Darius makes his way over to me and smiles sheepishly, mumbling vague words of apology. I just roll my eyes at him and threaten to use him for target practice if he ever tells anyone about my private moments again.

 

At this he flushes a brilliant red to match his hair, but manages to waggle his eyebrows at me. "Does this mean that there will be more  _private moments_  to tell about, now that Mellark is coming back?" I can only widen my eyes menacingly and blush; luckily Gale walks back over just in time. If he heard any of our exchange he pretends not to, but there is a new tenseness in the slope of his shoulders that abruptly ends the conversation.

 

We leave a few minutes later, our bags significantly lighter. All that remains to be traded are the strawberries and the squirrels. When our steps lead us to the backdoor of the Mellark's bakery, Gale looks uncertain.

 

"What are we doing?" he asks, hand reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. I jostle the hunting bag that hangs from my hands.

 

"I thought Mr. Mellark might like some squirrels," I tell him with a shrug, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "We haven't really traded with him any this month and they're his favorite."

 

He nods absently, before shuffling his feet. It's an unusual sight; usual Gale is very assured, very deliberate and confident. Seeing him so uneasy just reminds me how different things are.

 

"I could take care of it," I blurt out before really thinking it through. His eyebrows furrow but before he can protest, I add, "And you can take the strawberries to Madge. Twice the work in half the time, right? We can meet up later to split the goods."

 

He appears to mull over my offer, but I don't think I'm imagining his relief. "Are you sure?" The question seems more dutiful than anything; already his body is turned to walk away.

 

I nod, giving him a small smile. "Sure. This could take a while anyway, they looked pretty busy out front." No doubt all the Townies want to congratulate Peeta's family. When we passed the bakery in the square just moments ago I had seen Mrs. Mellark through the glass surrounded by a gaggle of women her age, while a line of customers stretched out the front door. Hopefully the women would distract her from the trade her husband made with me that she found so distasteful.

 

His smile is less forced and more genuine, and he reaches out to tug the end of my braid before he walks away, just as effortlessly quiet as in the forest. I turn back to the task at hand, and my stomach is inexplicably queasy. I'm not sure why I'm nervous; I've traded with the baker for years. I step forward and knock on the back door, the familiar three sharp raps that signal a trade.

 

After just a moment the door flies open, and I've never really noticed how like his father Peeta looks until this moment, when Mr. Mellark's blue eyes and kind smile beam down at me.

 

"Katniss," he exclaims, excitement filling his voice. "Come in, come in!"

 

In the four years I've been trading with him, he has certainly never been so eager to see me, and I am momentarily disconcerted. I didn't even know he really knew my name, it never came up before. After I remain on the doorstep a moment longer he pokes his head back at, looking puzzled. "Aren't you coming?"

 

I think my smile is more of a grimace, but he chuckles anyway; I hesitantly follow him inside. He shuts the door behind me and I am surrounded by the heat of the ovens, the smell of fresh bread and something sugary. The counters are floury and large racks are filled with goods. Mr. Mellark sees me looking around and laughs again.

 

"We found ourselves suddenly busier than usual," he explains, gesturing towards the messy counters.

 

I take this as my cue to get down to business. "I, uh, brought you some squirrels," I tell him, pulling the small animals out of my pack by the tails.

 

He looks delighted. "Right through the eye, as usual!" He beams again and without thinking I smile back at him, caught up in his obvious good mood. Who can blame him? His youngest son just beat all the odds and will be coming home to him, and business is clearly booming.

 

Mr. Mellark reaches out and takes the squirrels from my grasp, examining them briefly before grinning at me. "The usual, then?" I nod and he walks over to the racks, gather up a few loaves of fresh bread.

 

The door from the front opens up and we both tense; the few times his wife has ever walked in on our trades have never been pleasant, and I doubt she will be as chipper as her husband to see me. To my relief it is Peeta's older brother, the middle child. He is taller than his brother but just as broad shouldered; his hair is a darker blond, like his mother, but even from a distance his eyes are just as dazzlingly blue. I can't remember his name; he is in the same year as Gale at school, and unlike Peeta he never seems to be here in the mornings when Gale and I make our trades.

 

"Mom wants you up front, Dad," he tells his father, leaning against the wall and shifting his gaze between the two of us.

 

Mr. Mellark straightens hastily, a slightly guilty look on his face. "Of course," he says, looking over at me. He gestures towards the loaves he's piled up. "Can you wrap these up for Katniss, son?" The boy smiles at him and nods, and the baker waves a final goodbye to me before leaving the room.

 

Instead of taking care of the bread like his father asked, Peeta's brother continues to look at me for a moment, fiddling with the strings of the stained apron he wears. "So you're Katniss," he says slowly. His voice is only curious, not hostile like his mother's, but I am still nervous. I nod. He grins at me, his whole face lighting up, and he looks much more like Peeta.

 

"I'm Farl," he says, wiping his hands on his apron and walking towards me. He sticks his hand out for me to shake. "I've heard a lot about you."

 

I stare at his hand a moment before shaking it gingerly. "You have?" I'm clearly puzzled and he laughs, the sound clear and friendly like his father. "How?"

 

Farl doesn't answer, just turns around and picks up the bread his father set aside for me. When he speaks, it is not to answer my question. "Everything has been so crazy ever since Peet left," he confides, his back to me as he wrap up the bread. "People were always coming in to offer their condolences and snoop around for gossip. And then of course this morning everyone keeps coming to congratulate us. I've never seen it this busy, and I've been working here since I was old enough to walk." He shakes his head and turns around, bringing the bread over to me. "We've even had a few Capitol reporters come in," he continues. "Right when they were doing the interviews for the final eight, they kept coming around and asking us questions."

 

I make a noncommittal noise, unused to so much conversation during my trades. He meets my eyes, his gaze unwavering. "What they were really curious about was that girl Peeta keeps talking about. Kept asking who she is, what we know. Wanted to do an interview with her."

 

I gulp a little, and my eyes dart around the bakery, looking anywhere but at Farl. "Really?"

 

"Mhm. Of course, Mom and Bannock, our other brother, they have no idea who it is. Me and Dad, though—" I look up and our eyes lock again, "Well, we didn't say anything."

 

I sputter a little, embarrassed at how warm my cheeks feel. "I'm, uh, sure she appreciates that." I edge towards the door, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

 

Farl snorts. "I'm sure she does," he agrees. When my hand grabs the doorknob he speaks again. "Katniss, Peeta has volunteered to open with Dad every morning for the past three years. Even though it means he has to be here before the sun rises, even on a school day. Doesn't ever even want to trade with us." He gives me a wry smile. "He always wanted to be here, just in case. His favorite food is squirrel. He's my  _brother_ ; we've shared a room since he was born. I know everything about him. Especially about the girl he's been in love with his whole life."

 

We stand there in silence until his father calls for him out front. Farl gives me one more long look. "Peet is—" he stops to consider his words careful. "He's the best. There's no one like him."

 

"I know." The words slip out before I can help it.

 

He smiles at me again, looking a little relieved. His father calls for him again, and Farl rolls his eyes. "I better get back," he says with a reluctance that is clearly exaggerated. He cocks his head to the side. "I hope we see more of you, Katniss. When Peeta gets back."

 

I walk quickly out of the back door, the bag of bread trembling a little in my grasp. What is it about those Mellark boys that leave me utterly out of sorts?

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a Middle Mellark fangirl and you guys can't stop me. Deal with it.


	8. Chapter 8

. . . 

 

The stage is bright and the Capitol crowd is anxious; it has been more than a week since they've seen their new Victor and they are eager to see him. The crowd has gathered in the square again back in District 12. The Capitol has ordered the entire district here to film our celebration. The air in the square is far less tense than it was a week ago, children run around and adults chatter happily. Kids my age from school are clumped together in groups, eagerly discussing Peeta. I catch a glimpse of Farl up at the front of the crowd with his family and he gives me a little grin before looking away quickly. I can feel my face turn red; I sincerely hope no one noticed our interaction, especially since he told me people have been asking about Peeta's love interest.

 

I also catch Gale sneaking looks at me, but I try my hardest not to acknowledge them. In the week since Peeta's victory things between us have been getting better but are still strained. We've both just been acting as if nothing happened between us, like Gale never said or did anything out of the ordinary. Prim thinks it's unhealthy; I would rather cut my tongue out than talk about my feelings to Gale, so I think it's much better than the alternative. I've never been that emotionally healthy anyway, I don't see any reason to start now.

 

Prim is by my side as always, but this time she isn't crying. Instead, she looks ecstatic and secretive, and keeps giving my hand tiny, furtive squeezes each time we hear Peeta's name — there's a significant chance she likes him much more than I do, judging by her obvious excitement. I, on the other hand, am solemn and unsmiling, too distracted by the queasiness in my stomach to feel anything but dread.

 

The queasiness intensifies as the crowd in the squares hushes and the Capitol crews signal for us to watch the screen. Caesar Flickerman appears on stage, smiling warmly at the Capitol crowd. I'm too distracted by his frightful blue makeup and the fluttering in my belly to pay much attention to what he says, but I notice him motion for a group of people to join him on stage: Peeta's prep team, the Capitol workers who transformed him from the sweet boy who kissed me to the Capitol's newest romantic hero. His team, a trio of bizarre looking women, bob around on stage, waving ecstatically.

 

And then someone I recognize joins them on stage, Effie Trinkett. Her signature shocking pink wig is perfectly in place, and her toothy grin lets us all know just how excited she is to have lucked into a decent tribute for the first time in her career. Two more people join her on stage, a thin blonde woman and an utterly ordinary looking man with a kind face and dark skin. They are Cinna and Portia, the stylists of the District 12 tributes this year. Although Portia was Peeta's stylist, Cinna was apparently the mastermind behind their fire theme. I lock in on his gentle smile, memorizing his face — I know it is largely thanks to him that Peeta was so successful in the Capitol, and a part of me feels suspiciously like I am in his debt.

 

The cheers of the crowd in the Capitol are obnoxiously loud; they are stomping and shouting and screaming, making it almost impossible to hear anything else. They grow louder still when Haymitch Abernathy strolls on stage, looking marginally more sober and infinitely happier than the last time I paid him any attention, when he fell off the stage drunk at the Reaping.

 

Then —  _oh_. Peeta appears from nowhere, lifted up on a metal plate. And the queasiness in my stomach turns into something much harder to identify, giddy and disconcerting all at once. I feel my palm get sweaty in Prim's grasp, and I can tell that the look on my face is stupid and is giving everything that I don't really even understand away, but it doesn't matter because he's  _there_  and he's whole and lovely and  _alive_. He is beautiful, even in his simple black pants and yellow shirt, and I can tell the crowd agrees, not just in the Capitol but all around me in District 12, because all I can hear are screams and whistles and cheers. Peeta's cheeks are rosy and he waves at the cameras; I wonder if he has any idea of the effect he's having on the people back home, of the effect he's having on  _me_.

 

Prim grins up at me, elbowing my lightly in the ribs. I glare down at her but she just laughs sweetly. "You look dazzled," she whispers to me, smiling still. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks and I want to reprimand her, but I can't. Because dazzled is a frustratingly appropriate word.

 

After what seems like hours of cheers Peeta finally makes his way to the Victor's seat, a straight-backed, rather ornate chair. Caesar talks a bit more, undoubtedly clever but unable to capture my attention at all, and then the lights dim. The recap begins, a three hour long review of the entire Games. The view on the large screen in the square splits, and on one side we watch twenty-three innocent children die. On the other side, possibly even more horrifying, we have to watch Peeta relive it all. I can't pay attention to the Games—I've seen enough children die on screen to last a lifetime.

 

Instead, my eyes are glued to Peeta. His white knuckled fist. His clenched jaw. The haunted look in his blue eyes, even from far away. The way he seems to shatter a bit more as each death is replayed.

 

Somehow, I don't think Peeta is as whole and unbroken as he looks.

 

. . .

 

His interview the next day is more reassuring. Peeta is charming and witty, joking with Caesar like he's known him for years. He looks handsome in some red and white outfit, all white smiles and glittering eyes. Despite this, an ache slowly builds in my chest.

 

I remember one time, right after Dad died, walking over to the primary school to pick up Prim. She came out with red eyes, sniffles, and a skinned knee. At first she refused to talk about it, but as we got closer and closer to home she broke. A boy a year older than her, a merchant boy from town. He stuck his leg out as she was walking in the lunch room to throw away her trash, tripping her. Then he pointed and laughed, until every student in the room way locked in on them.

 

I felt the same ache then and I know what it means now, although I am slightly bewildered by it. It is an urge to hide him away from everyone else, to tuck him away and keep him safe and innocent from the world for as long as possible, to do everything I can to protect him. Prim is the only person I have ever felt this for, this possessive need to do whatever I can to keep someone safe. But as Caesar leaves the topic of rose scented bathwater and lamb stew and veers toward the subject of Rue, I feel it claw undeniably at my insides.

 

"Why did you decide to become allies with such a small girl?" Caesar is tilted forward, looking genuinely interested and curious. Peeta's face is heartbreakingly genuine as he shrugs.

 

"She reminded me of someone back home," he answers honestly. "This little girl that everyone loves. She seemed so sweet and innocent, there was no way I could kill her."

 

Beside me, Prim looks utterly entranced at his words, and I can't help but wonder — when Rue was reaped, looking so little and innocent I had been irrepressibly reminded of my sweet sister. I can't help but wonder if Peeta made that connection too. The thought makes something in me squeeze uncomfortably.

 

They continue to talk of the Games for a few minutes, until the moment comes that I have dreaded most.

 

"Be honest with me, Peeta…did you really think you would make it when you were Reaped a month ago? Did you really think you would be the Victor of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games?"

 

Peeta lets out a huge sigh and laughs a little. "Not really, Caesar. I come from District 12, and we haven't had a victor since the Quarter Quell. I mean, I'm just a baker — what chance did I have against kids like the Careers? But I knew I had to try."

 

Caesar smiles appreciatively. "Because you promised?"

 

Peeta gets that look on his face that he had during his first interview, like this is not something he wants to talk about very much. But he nods anyway. "Because I promised."

 

Caesar laughs, reaching over to nudge him a little. "Now Peeta, ever since you made your little announcement before the Games we have all been dying to know who this mystery girl is! Every reporter worth his salt went to District 12 trying to get an interview with her, but no one seemed to know who she is. Will you tell us now?"

 

I feel my stomach drop. Peeta smiles, shaking his head. "I don't think she'd really appreciate that, sorry Caesar."

 

He frowns, clearly disappointed. "But when you go back home, everyone's going to find out who she is. Right?"

 

Peeta's smile freezes, and something in his face changes. "I don't know about that," he confesses. "She, uh — well, she probably didn't expect me to make it through," his laugh is forced and I cringe a little. "I don't really think she'll come running into my arms or anything the moment I get home just because she came to see more for five minutes before I left." His voice is casual, the smile still plastered on his face, but it is clear that he is upset now.

 

I can practically feel Prim's frown. I'm not sure how I feel about this; I have been given a clear out. Peeta expects nothing from me, he doesn't think I'll seek him when he returns.

 

It bothers me more than I thought it would.

 

The Capitol crowd is horrified, shouting reassurances at Peeta. But something else, something like a cold whisper starts through the crowd around me.

 

. . .

 

"I think he completely made her up," a blonde girl from town says matter-of-factly. She is two tables away from Madge and I in the lunchroom, but I can hear her clear as day and it stings. "I've known Peeta for years and I've never seen him pay any attention at all to girls." There is a slight bitterness in her voice. "He probably just did it for sponsors."

 

I hadn't noticed the rumors during the Games. But the whisper that started that night in the crowd has apparently been around for weeks — poor Peeta, poor lying Peeta made up a girl to be in love with to get sponsors. How embarrassing.

 

"Katniss?  _Katniss_?" Madge looks down at the fork clutched tightly in my hand, the tight line of my lips. "Are you okay?"

 

I nod, but I am clearly not okay. I can't help the anger that I feel, that they would accuse Peeta of lying. That they don't think a girl came to see him, that there's certainly no girl who asked him to come home. And then I feel angry with myself, for a multitude of reasons: that I was stupid enough to ask him home. That I'm too scared to admit that it was me. That I'm letting Peeta look like a complete fool, and he's not even home yet.

 

She gives me a hard look; Madge and I may not talk much, but apparently she knows me well enough to see through my lie. I shift my eyes around; no one is paying any attention to the two quiet girls who sit alone. I sigh.

 

"I just hate what they're saying," I admit, staring hard at the table before looking back up at her. She seems to be contemplating my answer. The look she gives me is so knowing, I wonder what else she's observant enough to see through.

 

She tilts her head to the side, her long blonde ponytail swishing with the movement. "You know, we've been sitting together for years, Katniss," she tells me, leaning forward slightly and speaking quietly. "And even though we don't talk, you're really the only friend I've got."

 

My eyebrows rise in surprise. "Thanks?"

 

Madge rolls her eyes. "What I mean is — I know you're not really the kind to listen to gossip. What those girls are saying…it's not important. They don't know the truth, like we do."

 

"The truth?" My voice is defensive; I never realized what a terrible liar I was until I suddenly needed to be a really good one. "What do you mean?"

 

She shrugs, once more my mild mannered, quiet friend. "Nothing really. Do you want my apple? I'm not hungry for it."

 

. . .

 

School lets out two hours early; Peeta's train is due in from the Capitol at four o'clock, and the entire District is expected to greet him at the station. We have been instructed to wear our best, as the eyes of the entire country of Panem will be focused on us.

 

Before I can walk over to pick Prim up, a hand wraps around my elbow and pulls me behind the school building. I shriek loudly, caught completely unawares.

 

" _Be quiet_ ," a familiar voice hisses. I look up at the boy I just spoke to for the first time a week ago.

 

"Farl?" I manage to come across incredulous and pissed at the same time. "What are you doing?"

 

Peeta's older brother does not look as friendly as he did a week ago; in fact, he looks downright angry. "Do you know what they're saying about him? Have you heard? They're calling him a liar, Katniss. They think he's making you up."

 

I frown, sighing wearily. "I know."

 

"You  _know?_  You know and you haven't said anything?" He looks astonished. "Why?"

 

"What am I supposed to say? I don't even know what I was thinking when I went to see him that day, I don't—"

 

"Oh, my god." Farl looks disgusted with me. "You're — Peeta was right, wasn't he? You didn't think he would make it." My hesitation seems to answer him. "Did you even care about him at all?"

 

"I—"

 

He interrupts me, furious. "Of course you don't. If you did, you would never let him be humiliated like this. The entire country is going to think  _my brother_ is a liar because of  _you_."

 

Guilt crashes over me. "Farl, I didn't mean — of course I care, I just—" But I don't know how to finish that sentence.

 

Farl shakes his head. "You know, all these years I thought Peeta was wasting his time on you. You never talk to him, never pay him a bit of attention, never give him the slightest hope. Acting like you're too good to notice anyone besides Gale Hawthorne. But he was just  _convinced_  that you were this amazing girl, that if you would just look at him for a moment…" He closes his eyes, too angry to finish. He walks away without a word.

 

. . .

 

Even at the back of the crowd, I can hear the whistle of the train from miles away. If I let myself, I can almost imagine it is the day of the Reaping all over again. I am in my mother's blue dress, clutching Prim's hand tightly. So confused by the emotions whirling around inside of me that it makes me dizzy.

 

I catch a glimpse of the Mellark family on the platform, eagerly waiting for Peeta. Farl glimpses my way and scowls angrily before looking away. The crowd around me is tense with anticipation, too excited to even speak for once.

 

The train pulls into the station, and the moment is here before I can decide how I feel. Effie Trinket steps off, ridiculously well dressed and out of place. Haymitch stumbles after, tipsy once again, waving drunkenly at the crowd. And then—

 

The crowd erupts in cheers, the moment the cameras have been waiting. Bright flashes of light go off as Peeta steps from the train, looking so handsome and happy to be home. He waves at everyone, then rushes over to his family. He clings to his father like a little boy, shoves and punches his brothers. Hugs his stiff mother. Faces back to the crowd.

 

I see him look around, waving at his friends from school, customers that he sees everyday at the bakery, people from the Seam he's never met. The same smile stuck on his face. Then, for just a second, his eyes lock on me in the back, hanging on to Prim for dear life; they widen. And then move past me, like I was never there at all.

 

I feel Prim's hands push me gently at the same time I sprint forward; for a moment I am all elbows and no thoughts, shoving through the crowd around me, oblivious to the irritated shouts and mutters. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I can't stop now. I push through.

 

Suddenly I am at the front of the crowd, feet away from the boy with the bread. And his blue eyes focus on me again, so confused, so — hopeful? Before I even realize it, I rush towards him, and I know everyone is staring at me with something like realization.

 

But it doesn't even matter, because his arms open up just in time for to jump in them. And he is crushing me to him, so tightly I'm not sure I'll ever breathe normally again. And it _doesn't matter_.

 

"Katniss?" His whisper in my ear is baffled. "You didn't have to—"

 

I shake my head, holding him tighter even though our embrace is bordering on embarrassingly long. "Shut up," I whisper gruffly. I can feel his laugh vibrate in his chest.

 

"Okay."

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shut up." Because, you know, she's a romantic.


	9. Chapter 9

. . .

 

" _He loved her for almost everything she was and she decided that was enough to let him stay for a very long time."_ ― Brian Andreas

 

. . .

 

The crowd is muttering insistently now, and I'm fairly certain I hear a loud shriek. My long maintained invisibility is slowly slipping away with every passing second.

 

But he's so warm and alive, it almost seems worth it to give this secret piece of my life away to the world. He holds me close to him as if he's afraid that I'll disappear, and it should feel claustrophobic but all I can think about is the way his heartbeat sounds with my ear pressed against his chest.

 

It takes a very insistent Effie Trinkett to make Peeta pull away from me, and as soon as his arms leave me he looks regretful. "It's a big, big day, Peeta!" she reminds his reproachfully. "We have a very busy schedule." She looks me up and down, a curious look on her face that all gossips must have, Capitol and District 12 alike.

 

Peeta nods, but the moment she turns around to face the cameras —  _oh, no, the cameras_ — he rolls his eyes. He smiles at me, his teeth very white, and his blue eyes seem so much bluer now that I see him again in person. "Sorry," he whispers sheepishly.

 

The longer I am out of Peeta's embrace, the longer I feel like a complete idiot for the scene I just caused. I can hear the snaps of the cameras around me, the excited questions shouted out from the reporters and camera men. The district behind me is watching and murmuring with unveiled fascination, and Haymitch Abernathy gives me a surprisingly shrewd look for someone who seems to be drunk so much of the time. Farl catches my eye and is grinning like an idiot, but I can see his mother behind him frozen with indignation — that must be where the shriek came from. I can feel my whole body heating up with embarrassment.

 

Everything in me, the instincts that have done such a good job at keeping my family and me alive for years, screams at me.  _Run, run, run._  I am already forgetting what it felt like to hold him, too caught up in the horrors of the attention focused on me.

 

"I should go," I say quickly, my eyes darting away to look anywhere but his face. I note the way his shoulders sag, and the feelings that have been warring inside of me stir again — somehow I seem to keep failing this boy. I look him in the eye once more. "You do have a ' _busy schedule'_ ," I quietly imitate Effie's ridiculous Capitol accent, and Peeta smiles a little. The ache from yesterday, the urge to protect him, the feeling that he has wormed his way into my heart comes back full force and it terrifies me.

 

Before I can turn away, he reaches out and grabs my hand. He leans in close, and his breath tickles my ear and makes me shiver. "When can I see you again?" His whole face looks somehow hopeful and dejected at the same time. It makes up my mind for me.

 

"Soon," I breathe back, squeezing his hand; Peeta's eyes light up, his smile wide and genuine and excited. And to my surprise, I mean it. I think back to that day in the Justice Building, the way my toes curled when he kissed me, and I wonder what it will feel like now that he won't be disappearing in five minutes. If there will be more kisses, now that death isn't close at hand.

 

. . .

 

When Haymitch Abernathy shows up at my house the next day angry and sober, I am speechless. He pounds on the door minutes after sunrise, when I am the only one awake. I open the door and we stare at each other.

 

"Let's take a walk, sweetheart," he says gruffly, his hard gray eyes glaring at me. I am too stunned to argue.

 

My boots make no sound as we quickly march through the Seam, but Haymitch beside me possesses no such silence; he breathes gustily, grumbling constantly, and his tread is heavy. I can tell by the color of the sky that I should have met Gale by now, but I continue to follow him. I'm irritated by his peevish silence, but I can't help the dread and curiosity that rolls around in my stomach — I know, whatever this is, can't be good.

 

He leads me to the meadow, as close to the fence as possible, then abruptly turns to face me, face worked into a harsh scowl.

 

"If you had any brains at all, you would have stayed away from him," he says without any introduction, looking me up and down.

 

I feel myself bristle; I can recognize danger when I see it. "Excuse me?" My voice is a hiss, and I cross my arms in a defensive stance. Legs apart, ready to run. "How is it any of your business?"

 

Haymitch looks slightly more approving at my open hostility. "Nobody wins the Games," he shakes his head and sighs, "The boy is the biggest loser of all. Winning…is just the start of a new game. You can't understand the danger he's in. The danger you're in."

 

I feel the cold grip of fear. "Danger? Peeta—"

 

He narrows his eyes. "You don't know what they do to Victors, girl." His hands are tightly clenched. "If he's lucky, maybe he'll just have to prepare innocent children to die for the rest of his life. But if the odds aren't in his favor?" He smirks ironically. "Some get sold to the highest bidder every night. Some get their entire families killed off; anyone they care about, dead, if they step a toe out of line. That includes you, sweetheart."

 

I swallow hard and he laughs, a bitter sound. "Figured that would get your attention."

 

I remember how healthy and beautiful Peeta looked yesterday, how warm he was when he held me close. "Does he know?"

 

Haymitch shakes his head, looking hesitant for the first time. "Not exactly," he admits slowly. "Peeta is just — so  _good_. Better than us, certainly," he says, gesturing between the two of us and I wonder how he knows me so well. "I didn't want to ruin that."

 

We stare at each other again, silent for a long time. His hair is still dark like mine, his gray Seam eyes calculating like Gale's do when he's on the hunt. But there's something else, a weary hopelessness written all over the lines of his face. I think he's just trying to protect Peeta, the only kid he's brought home in twenty-four years. I wonder what Peeta would think of all this, if he would be angry or afraid, and I remember the way he looked when he watched the recap of the Games. I think about the safe anonymity I had yesterday before he came home.

 

"So you think I should stay away?" I ask, thinking hard.

 

He looks disgusted but satisfied, as I have confirmed every thought he had about me. "That would probably be best," he says with a sneer.

 

Staying away from Peeta means safety. It means life goes back to normal. It means no more kisses that leave me dizzy, no more warm hugs, no more blue eyes, no more boy with the bread. A month ago this wouldn't have even required thought. A week ago it would have been difficult but inevitable. Yesterday it might have broken my heart.

 

Today it is impossible.

 

"No."

 

He looks surprised. "No?"

 

I shake my head, "No." My voice is steady but my hands are shaking. Haymitch opens his mouth, but closes it quickly. He seems to be at a loss for words and looks me over once more.

 

. . .

 

Reluctantly, Haymitch told me when and where I can find Peeta to have a moment alone. Things will have to become very public very quickly, to convince the nation that Peeta is happy and perfect in District 12, that there is no need to hurt him or force him to the Capitol to do terrible things. We will have to sell a love story that he so perfectly started weeks ago. But first I need to see him again, alone. Just for a moment.

 

Tonight he is at a party at the Mayor's house, celebrating his victory with all the rich town merchants and Capitol guests. Then at 11:30, he will be escorted home by Haymitch. The rest of his entourage, even the obsessively punctual Effie Trinkett, will stay at the Mayor's until midnight.

 

It is 11:25 and I am on the porch of Peeta's home in the Victor's Village. The house is empty and dark, and the whole neighborhood is eerily silent. Haymitch told me Peeta's family refused to move in; they didn't want to leave the bakery, so Peeta will live alone here in this huge, imposing house.

 

It is so quiet I can hear my heart beating, and so dark I can see thousands of stars glittering in the sky. I try to think of what I can possibly say to Peeta, what I can do to show him the danger he's in. Haymitch is insistent we don't tell him anything, but I'm not sure how well I can act.

 

The moments slip by slowly. My mother had given me such a look when I slipped out of the house earlier in the night, as if she knew exactly where I was going. She hasn't mentioned Peeta, has barely said a thing at all. But she keeps giving me sad, resigned looks as if she knows everything. Prim smiled sleepily at me and tried to convince me to take my hair down.

 

I hear footsteps crunching down the road about five minutes before I can see them—Haymitch, round and lumbering, almost definitely drunk. Peeta, hands in his pockets, looking up at the crescent moon. I sit on the top step, looking out expectantly, fidgeting nervously with the end of my braid. Haymitch elbows him and nods over at me.

 

Peeta freezes, and for a moment we just look at each other. We don't even say anything to Haymitch as he walks away. In the darkness his eyes don't look so blue.

 

"Hey," I say after a few moments, hoping that it's too dark for him to see my blush.

 

He tilts his head to the side and looks at me for a moment longer, almost as if he's not sure I'm really here. Then he gives me a crooked smile. "Hey." He walks over and stands on the step below me. I stand up and we are almost at eye level, although he is still a little taller; I can see the shadows beneath his blue, blue eyes. He reaches a hand out and touches my cheek; my eyes flutter closed. "What are you doing here?" His voice is a whisper that is loud in the silence.

 

My eyes blink open and I look at him once more, tired and weary and a little confused. His hand slides to the side of my face, his warm fingers resting behind my ear. It occurs to me that soon we will probably need to have a real conversation. But not now.

 

I smile at him, a rare, soft smile that I only ever give to Prim. "I told you I would see you soon," I remind him gently, and the tired look on his face is replaced by happiness.

 

And when he ducks his head and kisses me, the fear that has been making my heart race since Haymitch talked to me this morning disappears; my heart is racing for a different reason now. And the question I had — would the kisses be the same? No, it isn't the same; it is infinitely better, because it isn't a memory, it isn't a surprise, it isn't followed by hopelessness.

 

I know I made the right decision.

 

. . .

. . .


	10. Chapter 10

. . .

 

Madge drops down to sit beside me at our lunch table, an unusually bright smile on her typically reserved face. "Hey, Katniss," she greets cheerfully, tucking a blonde strand behind her ear. I force the corners of my mouth up in greeting. Whispers float around us like pollen in the springtime, but Madge pays no attention to them.

 

" _Seam trash."_  The accusation carries across the lunchroom and I look up. The same blonde merchant girl who, just a week ago, had declared to her friends that Peeta was a liar is glaring at me now. I scowl back at her fiercely, wishing I had my bow.

 

Madge shakes her head. "Ignore her," she says, poking listlessly at the food in front of her. "Eunia is just jealous. She's had a crush on Peeta for ages."

 

"And everyone else?" My voice drops to an angry whisper. "They're jealous too?" Her lips tip down in a frown.

 

It's been a week since Peeta returned to District 12, and the rumors have been swirling around ever since — that I'm after him for his money, just trying to escape the Seam; that we've been carrying on for ages and I'm pregnant with his child; that it was all a stunt we concocted when Peeta was reaped, so he would get sponsors; that I've been blackmailing him into pretending to like me. But mostly the entire district just seems baffled, completely bewildered by our relationship. Seam and merchant don't belong together, not at all, but Seam and Victor? Absolutely unheard of. I'm so beneath his station now I might as well be the dirt that makes up the unpaved streets in my neighborhood. I am nothing, just a hungry, rebellious little poacher; he is 12's shining beacon of hope.

 

Even the Capitol reports that have made their way on to television, complete with sweet pictures of us embracing the day he returned, seem a little puzzled by our relationship; but that is probably due more to my complete lack of feminine appeal rather than my social status.

 

We sit in silence for a few minutes, chewing thoughtfully. Madge finally shakes her head in aggravation. "People are idiots, Katniss," she says sternly. "Girls like Eunia aren't capable of thinking about anything more complex than whatever she's told." This is a dangerous conversation to have, and her eyes dart around from side to side. "Just — you  _can't_  listen to them. You can't let ignorant, prejudiced people determine whether or not you're happy."

 

"Geeze, Madge," I mutter, picking at my meager sandwich. "When did you get so  _talkative_?" She looks startled until she catches the grateful smile on my face. She rolls her eyes at me and knocks her elbow against mine, pulling out a container of fresh strawberries.

 

"Don't get used to it."

 

. . .

 

I'm waiting for Prim in the school yard when Farl walks up to me, slinging his arm around my shoulders. "Hey there, Katniss," he says brightly. His voice is obnoxiously cheerful, and he pokes my stomach teasingly before whispering in my ear, "How's my little niece or nephew today?"

 

I elbow him hard in the ribs, shrugging off his arm. He groans exaggeratedly and rolls his eyes. "Just joking, Everdeen," he says mildly, clutching his stomach and backing a few steps away. "Note to self, Peeta's girlfriend doesn't like jokes."

_I'm not his girlfriend!_  "I'm not—" My protest stops short as I notice the attention we're getting. I shake my head and sigh. "What do you want, Farl?"

 

He smiles at me, his blue eyes glinting in the sun. "Are you always this friendly, or do I bring out the best in you?" He laughs at my scowl, and I sigh heavily again. He grins once more before turning serious. "Okay, okay. I was just wondering if you were going to see Peeta today."

 

I technically haven't seen Peeta since the night of the Mayor's party, but as far as Farl knows it's been a week to the day, since our very public reunion at the train station. He's been busy with Capitol obligations, and frankly it almost seems as if he's avoiding me. I've knocked on his door several nights this week, but he either hasn't been home or hasn't been answering, leaving a growing bundle of dread in the pit of my stomach.

 

"Today?" I scan the school yard for Prim, and see her walking slowly towards me, happily chattering with Rory.

 

Farl nods. "Yep. Peet told me last night the Capitol people were finally heading out. And he won't be at the bakery, Mom doesn't think it would be 'proper' for a new Victor to be working right now." He rolls his eyes, frowning. His voice drops to almost a whisper and I have to step closer to hear him. "He looks awful, Katniss. Like he isn't sleeping or something, I dunno. He just seems—" He shakes his head, and I know what he's thinking.  _Different_. I remember about the slump of his shoulders when I saw him on Saturday, the gray circles under his eyes even then.

 

"He…he hasn't been answering me," I admit slowly, feeling an embarrassed flush take over my cheeks. "When I've stopped by and knocked, he just — he hasn't answered the door. I'm not sure he wants to see me."

 

Farl looks worried. "Don't be silly," he tries to assure me, but he sounds uncertain, "I've only seen him the couple of times he's dropped by the bakery. Peet's crazy about you, he's just been busy."

 

I'm hesitant. "I don't know, Farl."

 

His face crumples a little. "Please, Katniss," his runs his fingers through his blond hair desperately. "I'm really worried about him. He just looks so  _bad_. I  _know_  that if you go and see him it will cheer him up, it has to.  _Please_." His blue eyes are just as striking as Peeta's, pleading with me.

 

Prim finally makes it over to me with Rory trailing behind her. She gives Farl a curious smile as she wraps her arms around me waist and squeezes me in a tight hug.

 

I force a smile. "Hey, little duck." My eyes shift back over to Farl. "Do you think you can walk home with Rory today?"

 

. . .

 

The door swings open after several minutes of rather insistent knocking, and I'm immediately struck by how right Farl was — something is terribly wrong with Peeta.

 

"Katniss?" His voice is slightly hoarse as though he is getting over a cold and his eyes, his beautiful bluer than blue eyes are glassy and dull. The bags under his eyes are purple and puffy. "What are you doing here?"

 

I feel my resolve crack. "I just wanted to see you. I can — I can leave if you want?" There's an edge of panic to my voice that I don't remember hearing before, and I feel myself flush once more.

 

He sags against the doorway and shakes his head. "No, of course I want to see you." He smiles at me, a crooked half smile that only barely reaches his eyes and I can't help it; I step forward and wrap my arms around him, squeezing him as tightly as I did at the train station. I remember how warm and alive he felt that day; now he feels like glass that could break at any moment. He rests his chin on the top of my head and breathes deeply.

 

We stay like that for a very long time.

 

. . .

 

"I haven't really been sleeping," Peeta admits after he tugs me inside, leading me to the couch in his living room. His house reminds me of the room he was taken to in the Justice Building, lovely and rich but unbearably formal. My house in the Seam could easily squeeze inside the foyer.

 

I reach up and lightly rub my thumbs under his eyes before I can even think it through. The gesture is frighteningly intimate. "You don't say," I quip dryly; he smiles sheepishly, closing his eyes at my touch.

 

"I just — the nightmares. They're…they're really bad." His confession is soft and embarrassed, and he refuses to look at me. "I see them. All the time." He doesn't have to say who; the people he killed, the people he watched die. Grey, Clove, Marvel, Cato. Rue. I put my hand on his cheek and he leans against it.

 

"I have nightmares, too." Peeta's blue eyes blink open quickly, staring at me.

 

"About what?" His voice is curious, but I can't help but wonder if he is resentful at my implication, that I have something to be afraid of too.

 

I cough awkwardly, shrugging. "Usually about my dad. About the day he died." He shifts closer, until I can feel him pressing warmly against me, his shoulders against mine. "And when you were gone, I — I had them about you, too."

 

He swallows hard. My eyes trace the movement of his Adam's apple.

 

"Does anything help?"

 

"Sometimes when Prim sleeps with me, they're not so bad. Something about having her there with me, I don't know. It helps."

 

Peeta frowns. "Well that doesn't do me much good," he muses.

 

An idea begins to form. And I know it's a terrible idea. A really bad, terrible,  _inappropriate_  idea that would definitely not do anything to quell the rumors about us and would probably give my mother a heart attack. But he looks so hopeless.

 

I jump to my feet and he is startled, looking up at me with bewilderment. I reach out my hand to him and he takes it.

 

"Suppose you give me a tour?"

 

. . .

 

His kitchen is huge, filled with baked goods that he apparently spent all night cooking. He begs me to try them and I do, although it difficult to suppress the feeling of charity. My favorite is undoubtedly the cheese buns, something I could never before afford at the bakery. He grins, promising to make them for me whenever I want, despite my determined protests.

 

There's a spacious office, with a large desk and comfortable chairs. A large window opens out to the backyard, and even though it's lovely it isn't what captures my attention. Instead I find myself staring at vivid paintings, angry and terrifying and overwhelming lifelike. He has recreated the arena.

 

Peeta tries to pull me away from them. "It helps sometimes," he explains. "My nightmares. It gets them out of my head a little. Please don't look at them."

 

His nightmares must be far worse than mine.

 

The upstairs is filled with empty bedrooms that he frowns at, rooms that his family should be staying in but won't. I can't help but wonder  _why_ , why they would leave him alone here when he is so obviously drowning.

 

And then we are in his room.

 

My mouth drops open a little. "Orange?"

 

Peeta smiles at me, squeezing my hand; I had almost forgotten he was still holding it. "It's my favorite color," he tells me.

 

"Orange? Seriously? Like pumpkins?" I wrinkle my nose and he laughs.

 

"No, not like pumpkins or anything. Soft, like sunset."

 

And the walls of his room are just that, a soft warm orange that makes the whole room radiate like the sun as it sinks in the sky. I can't help but smile too, because it's just as lovely as he is. The window is open and a soft breeze blows in. The walls reflect the golden afternoon light, and he looks even more tired up here than he did downstairs.

 

I tug him over to the bed and sit down on it, determined not to be embarrassed or awkward. The strange, intense look he gives me makes it difficult.

 

"Peeta—"

 

"Hm?"

 

I chew hard on the inside of my cheek. "Do you think…do you think it would help if I stayed with you?"

 

He gapes at me. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean," I take a shaky breath, "Like when Prim stays with me. It helps a little." The look he gives me is uncomprehending. "With your, uh, nightmares?"

 

"Katniss—"

 

"Just for an afternoon," I explain in a rush, my eyes staring at the floor. "Just like, like a nap. You just, you look  _awful_ , Peeta, like you might fall over at any moment, and Farl is so worried about you, and—"

 

" _Farl?_ "

 

"—and I just want to  _help_."

 

He exhales heavily and stands up, and I feel humiliated and rejected until he walks over to the other side of the bed and takes his shoes off and lies down, staring up at the ceiling. And now I'm just terrified. My hands shake as I unlace my boots. I lay flat on my back beside him, with a comfortable foot of space between us.

 

Peeta grabs my hand and squeezes hard, and when I turn my head to look at him his eyes look suspiciously wet. I roll over on my side to face him, pillowing my head on my arm.

 

"My favorite color is green," I tell him solemnly. "Like the forest."

 

His smile is beautiful.

 

. . .

. . .


	11. Chapter 11

. . .

 

When I wake up the afternoon light is slowly growing deeper with sunset and I am wrapped up so tightly in Peeta that it's hard to tell where I end and he begins. We must have been sleeping for hours, but his deep, even breaths let me know he's still out.

 

It's strange, being this close to him. I've only ever slept with Prim like this, although there is no part of waking up beside Peeta that feels anything like waking up beside Prim. Prim is small and curls into me like a kitten. Peeta is holding me, pulling me so tightly against him I think I should probably be uncomfortable. But I'm not.

 

Which, ironically, makes me uncomfortable.

 

He smells like flour and soap and boy, and the sound of his heartbeat that hums steadily under my ear would certainly lull me back to sleep if I let it. I can't remember the last time I slept so peacefully. I don't have nightmares every night, but even when I don't, I still toss and turn, restless, unable to turn my thoughts off. But not this afternoon, not with Peeta.

 

I don't know what this is. This relationship. This thing that I am, quite literally at the moment, wrapped up in. It isn't something I ever wanted or looked for; in fact I'm fairly certain I've been running from things like this since my father died. I dread the moment we have to discuss what exactly this is.

 

I shift slightly, trying not to wake him. We are on our sides facing each other, legs pretzeled together in a knot so intricate I'm not sure which are mine. My head is tucked under his chin, his warm breath fluttering the strands of hair that have come loose from my braid. I pull back a little to look at his face, and my breath hitches embarrassingly;  _this is not like sleeping with Prim at all_. He is disconcertingly handsome, especially for someone who prides herself on not paying a speck of attention to things like that. His long, pale eyelashes rest against his cheeks, blonde hair mussed and curly from sleep, pink lips curling up slightly in an unconscious smile.

 

He moves in his sleep closer towards me, hips pressing against mine intimately, and for the single longest second in my existence I freeze, unsure. The pressure feels so startlingly new and—

 

Before I can even make a conscious decision I roll sharply away, ripping myself from his arms and sitting ramrod straight. Somehow more confused than ever, an embarrassed flush taking over my face.

 

Peeta jolts awake, flailing his arms a little from the sudden movement, and my stomach drops guiltily. "Katniss?" His voice is deeper than usual, husky with sleep, and his blue eyes stare at me blearily. "What—?" He trails off, charmingly confused.

 

I tilt my lips in an apologetic smile, afraid that he will notice the blush staining my cheeks. "Sorry," I whisper. "I woke up later than I meant to and it surprised me." A legitimate excuse — even though the sun is still hovering reluctantly over the horizon, the clock tells me it's almost eight. I'm thankful once more for the long summer days our district is granted. "Prim is probably wondering where I am…"

 

He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes hard. "Sorry," he frowns, voice quiet and guilty. "I haven't slept that long in one go since before the games."

 

"Peeta—" My hand reaches out and grips his fingers tightly. "Don't apologize." He looks up at me, squeezing my hand gently, and maybe it's just my imagination but the shadows under his eyes seem a little less prominent. "Did it…did it help?"

 

Peeta's smile is radiant, and something warm flutters in my stomach.

 

"No nightmares," he says proudly. He laces his fingers through mine, tugging my hand gently before releasing me and climbing out of bed. I swing my legs over, standing up gingerly and stretching, arching my back like a cat. I turn back to face him and find him staring at me intensely again; I remember the way his hips leaned into mine and swallow hard, feeling my face grow hot again.

 

I quickly avert my eyes, but not before I catch him grinning.

 

. . .

 

Daylight is disappearing earnestly as I make my way home, the skyline a dusky orange that fades gently into the deep blue of night. I am in an uncharacteristically good mood, a sack of baked goods dangling from my fingers that Peeta coerced me to take home. He can be frustratingly persuasive when he wants, especially when he insists between long kisses that leave my mind absurdly blank.

 

I'm just approaching the mayor's house when a tall, lean figure appears out of nowhere, walking hurriedly towards me.

 

"Hey, Gale," I greet as he gets closer, hoping he doesn't notice the parcel of food in my hands. Because of the darkness I don't see the anger clearly written on his face until he is too close to avoid.

 

"Where the hell have you been?" he demands, eyes raking up and down my figure. A breeze brushes the back of my neck and before I can think logically I am worried that he will smell Peeta on me.

 

I feel myself bristling at his stare. "What do you mean?" My arms cross defensively, and his eyes dart to the sack hanging from my hands.

 

"Rory said you disappeared after school," Gale says, glaring at the food Peeta lovingly sent home with me as if it were a Capitol bomb. "Said you talked to the middle Mellark—"

 

"His name is  _Farl_."

 

"Whatever. He said you talked to the middle Mellark and then just disappeared. And now it's after eight and Prim is sick with worry, and  _you_  obviously don't give a shit because you look like you've been rolling around on the fucking slag heap all afternoon." His gray eyes look behind me, toward the direction I came from. "Heading home from Victor's Village, are we?" His voice is quiet, much more dangerous than his loud rants in the forest.

 

I pull self-consciously at the hem of my admittedly rumpled shirt, fiercely glaring back at him. "Shut  _up_ , Gale."

 

His hands curl into fists; this might be the angriest I've ever seen him. "So you  _were_  with him then. The proud Victor, huh?" The sneer on his face hurts like a punch to the gut. His eyes dart once again to the sack in my hand. "At least he's making it worth your while."

 

I lose it then, the bag of bread falling from my hands as I rush him, pummeling his chest with punches, pulling my arm back to hit his face. It's an angry rush of movements, nothing like our playful nudges in the woods. He grabs my wrists, halting my attack; his grip is almost painfully tight and I look into his eyes. They are red rimmed and watery like the day he first confronted me about Peeta.

 

For the first time I wonder how hard this is on him, Peeta's return.

 

I wrench my hands out of his grasp, turning sharply away and bending to pick up the food I refuse to waste. "You should know me better than that, Gale," I say, surprised to hear how thick my voice is with emotions. "I'm not — we're just…It's none of your  _business_."

 

Gale groans, deep and anguished. I face him again and he has his head in his hands, shoulders slumped. "It used to be," he mutters bitterly. " _You_  used to be my business, Catnip," and his tone twists my stomach into guilty knots.

 

"Gale—"

 

"Do you have any idea what people are saying about you?" He lifts his head and stares at me incredulously.

 

I shift uncomfortably. "I don't care what they say, Gale, and you didn't used to either."

 

He grimaces. "That was before they were talking about what a whore the girl I'm in love with is." I feel myself blush at the many implications of that sentence that make me want to run for the hills.

 

"They're just Townies," I say dismissively. I feel like I might be sick, and I can't help but glance towards the mayor's house, guiltily hoping Madge didn't overhear that.

 

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Just Townies? Katniss, the whole  _district_  is in an uproar. No one understands what you're doing."

 

I roll my eyes. "We're not exactly the first merchant/Seam couple, I don't understand what the big deal is. I mean I know it's unusual—"

 

He scoffs. "Unusual? Katniss, Mellark is a  _Victor_. Victors don't belong with  _Seam trash_." His words send cold shivers down my spine.

 

"Is that — is that what you think I am?" It's hard to choke the words from my throat. My best friend.

 

Gale must hear the hurt and disbelief in my words, and his glare softens. "God, no," he says, stepping closer. Before I can even fathom what is happening, his hand is cupping my face, the skin of his fingers harder and much more calloused than Peeta's, hands that have worked hard beside me for years. I shake my head roughly and his hand falls down to his side, defeated; it curls slightly as if it burns.

 

I step away from him, hurrying around him and walking briskly towards home.

 

Before I get too far away he calls out one last time.

 

"How do you think this will affect Prim? All this shit people are saying about you?" This must have been his trump card, saved in case all else failed. I stiffen and swallow hard, looking back at him only for a moment before moving on. He stands there, still facing towards Victor's Village with one hand held away from him as if injured.

 

The sun has set completely, the waxing moon the only light guiding me as I step into the Seam.

 

. . .

. . .


	12. Chapter 12

. . .

 

Gale's words follow me around like coal dust, trapped in my clothes and under my fingernails. _How do you think this will affect Prim?_  It feels like nothing will wash them away, not the memory of Peeta pressing against me, not the promise I made Haymitch Abernathy, not the kind words of Madge.

 

The door creaks when I push it open, the dim light from the few candles warm and flickering compared to the cool glow of the moon. Prim rushes to me as soon as I step in.

 

"I was worried about you," she murmurs into my side as she presses close to me, wrapping her skinny arms around my waist.

_How do you think this will affect Prim?_

 

I could choke on the lump in the back of my throat. "Sorry, little duck," I whisper, hugging her securely to me. I try not think of the way Peeta held me just as tightly as she does, as if he needed me too. "I had to go see Peeta."

 

Prim pulls away, the edges of her mouth curling up in a hopeful smile. "Oh?" She perks up when I nod, the worry visibly disappearing from her face. "Oh!" She gives me a toothy smile, obviously pleased.

 

I pull out of her grasp and walk over to the rickety kitchen table, gently setting down the sack of bread as if it is something delicate; I know Prim will love the cheese buns, she'll love anything he baked. Which is dangerous. It can't happen again.  _How do you think this will affect Prim?_  "Where's Mom?"

 

Prim peers curiously at the bag. "One of Mrs. Layan's kids has whooping cough again," she says, shaking her head sadly. "She wanted me to stay home and wait for you."

 

"Oh." I know how much Prim loves to help our mother, how eager she is to learn.  _How do you think this will affect Prim?_  "Sorry you couldn't go with her, I didn't mean to stay out so long—"

 

She holds a hand up, cutting me off with a shrug. "It's not a big deal, I can stay home by myself just fine," she assures me, blue eyes still staring unwaveringly at the bag of pastries. "Are those—?"

 

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, go ahead. Peeta  _made_  me take them with me."

 

It takes Prim a fragment of a second to reach into the bag, pull out a cheese bun, and eat half of it. "This is so good!" she exclaims around a mouthful of the cheesy bread. "You should marry him so he makes them for us every day!"

 

My mouth drops open from shock and I feel my cheeks flush for what seems like the hundredth time today. The look on my face sends her into a fit of giggles.

 

"Oh, Katniss!" She laughs so hard I'm a little worried she might choke. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so—so, so  _red_!"

 

I scowl deeply. "I don't think it's funny."

 

Prim grins. "You  _like_  him! Not that I didn't already know — don't look at me like that, we've already talked about this, you  _do_  like him."

 

"Prim, it's not…we're just—"

 

She quirks an eyebrow at me. "You were with him all afternoon.  _You_. With a  _boy_. Who's in love with you. You let him give you food. You  _like_  him." I shake my head hard, looking down at the floor, and she sighs. "What's wrong, Katniss?"

 

I open my mouth but nothing comes out; I don't know what to say. It's not like I want her to know what everyone is saying about me. After a moment of silence she frowns; on her it is foreign and I feel guilty for being the one who caused it.

 

We spend the rest of the evening in silence, listening to the crickets and the sounds of the large family next door getting ready for bed.

 

I wonder if Peeta will sleep tonight.

 

. . .

 

Later she crawls into bed with me, cuddling against me and grabbing my hands.

 

"I'm not always a little duck, you know," Prim whispers, pulling our hands up and tucking them under her chin. "You can talk to me."

 

I stay quiet for a long time, listening to my mother's gentle breathing across the room. Finally I squeeze her hands. She smells familiar, like bread and coal dust and little girl.

 

"You'll always be my little duck, Primmy." Even though I know it's not true, I want it to be.

 

She burrows closer to me and we stay like that. "Please be happy," she whispers after a long while, and even in the silence her words are so quiet I almost miss them. Her shoulders tremble a little as she tries to muffle her sniffles, her face buried in the pillow. I don't know what to say.

 

I settle for holding her closer, not saying anything at all.

 

. . .

 

The Hawthornes are mysteriously absent from our walk to school this morning, and I know that Prim is disappointed. She always walks to class with Rory. I can't help but be glad Gale isn't around, though; every time I think of what he said to me, the way he talked to me, how he looked at me, I feel angry all over again.  _How do you think this will affect Prim?_

 

I feel guilty, though; in just a few days we will be on break, and then in August Gale will start in the mines. He won't ever walk to school with me again after that. The thought makes my stomach lurch.

 

The walk through town to school is quiet at first; Prim avoids looking at me, her eyes still puffy from crying herself to sleep. I rack my brain, trying to think of something, anything I can say to comfort her.

 

I nudge her shoulder with mine, smiling hesitantly as she meets my gaze. "Prim—"

 

Behind me, someone shouts. "Katniss!"

 

Prim and I whirl around to find a blond blur racing towards us. Farl is slightly winded when he reaches us, but his smile is as bright and friendly as ever. "Hey, Katniss!" His blue eyes dart down to Prim and he smiles charmingly, "Hey, little Katniss."

 

I scowl at him, but Prim giggles, her sadness instantly gone. "I'm Prim," she says, grinning back at him.

 

"I'm Farl," he sticks out his hand and she shakes it, looking utterly enamored.

 

I roll my eyes. "We're going to be late."

 

They exchange exasperated, amused looks as if they have been friends since birth, turning and walking beside me. I can't help but smile a little, glad that Farl is here to cheer Prim up.

 

"Your sister is quite a ray of sunshine today," he tells Prim, gesturing towards me with his thumb.

 

I scowl again and she laughs. "Oh, she's like that every day!"

 

Farl's mouth drops open exaggeratedly. "I never would have guessed!" He laughs, and the sound is warm and rich; I wonder if Peeta ever laughed like that, what it would take to get him to again.

 

He clears his throat, giving me a sly sideways look. "I dunno, Prim, there must be _something_  about her. Spending time with her sure seems to cheer Peeta up."

 

This doesn't get the reaction he was undoubtedly looking for; instead Prim furrows her brow and I duck my head, staring at my feet as we make our way closer and closer to the school yard.

 

"Well…that's good," Prim says slowly after an awkward silence.

 

His gaze darts back and forth between us, his smile slowly fading. We walk the rest of the way quietly, gravel crunching beneath our shoes. From the corner of my eye I can see people staring at us, the Everdeens and the middle Mellark.

 

I didn't used to care what people thought.

 

When we reach the split between the upper and lower schools we pause; Prim turns to me and smiles a little sadly, giving me a tight hug. "Bye, Katniss," she says softly. She looks over at Farl and smiles a little brighter. "It was nice to meet you, Farl."

 

Farl smiles back at her, a little less enthusiastic than he was when he first joined us. "You too, Prim."

 

She gives us one last look, a searching look that reminds me how grown up she can be sometimes, and then walks away. Farl and I stand there for a moment, watching her two blonde braids blend in and disappear in the crowd of elementary students. Then he turns to face me abruptly.

 

"Peeta came by last night."

 

I swallow nervously. "Oh?"

 

He tilts his head to the side, looking down at me as if I am a difficult puzzle to solve. "Sure did. And funny thing, he seemed happier. A  _lot_  happier."

 

"I'm glad," I tell him honestly.

 

He looks thoughtful. "Are you?"

 

The question comes out before I can even think it through. "Why is he alone?"

 

Farl blinks, confused at the change in conversation. "Pardon?"

 

"Alone. Peeta lives alone in that big mansion.  _Why_?" I shake my head. "He's your family, and he's lonely and  _sad_  and you know everything isn't okay. Why aren't you taking care of him? Why is he alone?"

 

He flushes angrily. "You don't know what you're talking about." He turns on his heel and begins to walk away. I reach out and grab his arm, and he stops, tugging out of my grasp. He sighs, hanging his head.

 

"Our mother," he begins, grimacing slightly, "she just, she said some things. When he got reaped. It was just — you'd have to know her, she just, she doesn't communicate like other people. She didn't mean anything by it, she just—" He shrugs his shoulders. "It's hard to explain. And now that he's won, and he's back, she just…I guess she doesn't like to be wrong. And there are some things you can't take back, you know?"

 

I feel sick to my stomach; I know firsthand how cruel Mrs. Mellark can be with her words. "But the rest of you?"

 

Farl runs a hand through his dark blond hair helplessly. "Dad can't leave Mom. He would never. And Bannock, he's getting married soon, it just doesn't make sense for him to move out to Victor's Village. And me — we take turns, you know. Going to see him. Every day. Dad goes every morning, Bannock and I have been trading off going in the afternoons. We have a schedule written down and everything."

 

We stare at each other for a moment, wrapped in our guilt. It might be the only thing we have in common, the way we can't help but let Peeta down. Without another word, we turn and walk the rest of the way to the upper school.

 

We reach the steps just as the bell rings, people rushing past us to get on time. He stops before moving on. "You're going to stop seeing him, aren't you?" It doesn't sound like much of a question.

 

"We're going to be late," I say again, feeling miserable.

 

He lets me walk away.

 

. . .

 

The first part of the day passes in a haze of pointed looks and whispers, though it's possible that I am imagining all of them. I pass Gale in the hallway on the way to math and he averts his eyes, frowning a little. It's a problem I will have to solve sooner or later; I choose later.

 

At lunch, Madge stares at me curiously, her pale eyes bright and sympathetic.

 

"What?" I grumble, biting viciously into my meager sandwich. The bread is made out of tessera grain, rough and coarse and dry.

 

Her eyes widen at my tone. "Nothing!" she assures me. She pulls out her own sandwich, made on soft white bakery bread and a small container of fresh strawberries. My eyes narrow in on the fruit.

 

"Where did you get those?" I definitely didn't go to the woods yesterday, and the last several times Gale and I went hunting before that we were pressed for time; we only ever bring Mayor Undersee strawberries on Sundays.

 

Madge flushes a little. "Oh, uh — your friend brought these by yesterday. Gale. He was looking for you." She picks nervously at the red berries, pulling the leaves off.

 

I frown, confused. "But he knew I where I was, Rory told him. I don't—"

 

"So where were you?" she blurts out, directing her gaze back at me. It's my turn to turn pink.

 

"I went to see Peeta," I mutter.

 

Madge grins. "I figured." She laughs ruefully. "Gale didn't seem very excited about that."

 

I roll my eyes and we share a look —  _Boys._ It's strange how before Peeta was reaped, Madge and I barely spoke. It seems almost natural now.

 

She takes a deep breath before speaking again. "So how is he? Peeta, I mean."

 

I shrug. "He's—" I'm not sure how to answer. "He could be better."

 

"My Aunt Maysilee was in the Hunger Games," she whispers after a moment. "The second Quarter Quell. She was my mom's twin. She, uh — well, she didn't make it obviously. And—" Her eyes flutter closed, hands curling into tight fists.

 

"And?"

 

Her eyes snap open, and she looks at me as if she's just remembered I was here. "My mom always seemed kind of glad that she didn't make it. That year there were double the tributes, and I think…well of course it was awful. It always is. The Games — no one's the same after. It changes everything."

 

I think about Mayor Undersee's wife; everyone knows how sickly she is. She is almost never seen in public, and when she is she seems thin and wan. Madge brushes her fingers over mine.

 

"Look," she says plainly, "I know people have been saying really stupid things. And people will keep saying really stupid things. It's awful but that's just how it is. People are idiots, especially about things that are different, things they don't understand. It's easier to whisper and point and say mean things than try to change your opinions. But he's going to need you, Katniss. If he's anything like my mom — she wasn't even  _in_  the Games and it almost killed her. He's going to need you."

 

I feel like I'm being pulled in a thousand directions. "But Prim—"

 

Madge shakes her head. "You can't protect her forever, you know." I stare at her, dumbfounded, but she doesn't waver.

 

After a moment she sighs and looks at the clock. "Better eat fast," she says, "lunch will be over soon." And she goes back to her strawberries, simple as that. Nothing more is said. The bell rings a few minutes later, just as I finish my sandwich.

 

. . .

 

I was wrong. Madge's words were able to wipe away Gale's in my mind, repeating over and over like a song I don't want to sing but can't forget.

_He's going to need you, Katniss._

_You can't protect her forever._

 

. . .

 

"Are you going to Peeta's today?" Prim asks me as we wander towards the gate after I've picked her up. I think about how Farl shanghaied me into going yesterday, and I look around; sure enough he hovers in the background. When our eyes meet the corners of his mouth turn down sadly.

_He's going to need you, Katniss._

 

"Well—" I hesitate, "I don't think that's a good idea."

 

"Why not?" She stops walking and stares at me, forcing me to stop too.

_You can't protect her forever._

 

"I just..." My voice drops a little. "People have just been saying a lot of stuff lately. And I just—"

 

"Are you serious?" Prim's eyes are wide and disbelieving. "You're not going to go see him because of  _that_? Is that why you've been so unhappy?"

 

I flush. "Prim, it's—"

 

She shakes her head. "That's stupid, Katniss. You didn't stop hanging out with Gale when people were talking about you two—"

 

"People were talking about us?" I begin to panic. Why did I never know this?

 

Prim rolls her eyes. "People always talk, Katniss," she says, and even though she only comes up to my shoulder she seems older than me in this moment. "You two disappear into the woods every day, alone, for hours. And Gale, well he already has a reputation, you know that. Of course people said something."

 

"Oh." I frown, embarrassed and annoyed. "But — but didn't that bother you? Hearing people say that stuff about me?"

 

She shrugs. "Why would it?" Her arms wrap around me and she squeezes tight. "You're my sister. I know what's true." She beams up at me. "I told you, I just want you to be happy."

 

"I'm not very good at being happy," I admit. Prim nods.

 

"No, you're not," she agrees. "But I am." She smiles, dropping her arms and grabbing my hand. "I'll teach you." She turns around and beckons to someone; Farl jogs over, looking hopeful.

 

"We're going to see Peeta," she tells him simply, and his eyes light up. "Want to come with us?"

 

"Well, I actually have to go to the bakery." He reaches out and tugs one of her braids, his excitement obvious. "But I can't let my brother's girlfriend and her sister walk through town unescorted! Walk you half way?" Farl's eyes cut over to me, just as blue and as friendly as Peeta's, and I can see the gratitude in his eyes.

 

With that she tugs my hand, and we're on our way. Farl and Prim chatter happily as she tugs me down the road towards Victor's Village.

 

It's the beginning of a beautiful routine.

 

. . .

. . .


	13. Chapter 13

. . .

 

" _I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly and then all at once."_  –John Green

 

. . .

 

The last day of school has ended before our small summer break, and Prim is positively giddy as we head towards Victor's Village. She skips and twirls and hums, kicking up little clouds in the dust as we make our way down the road. We left Farl at the bakery, his mother shooting us a burning glare through the paneled glass display as Prim hugged him tightly.

 

"I think I'm going to sleep all day tomorrow," Prim tells me matter-of-factly, bending down to pick a dandelion that has gone to seed. "Just because I can." She closes her eyes thoughtfully as she makes a wish; her mouth forms a perfect circle as she exhales. The hundreds of seeds catch in the breeze and hang there, suspended weightlessly for a moment before they slowly drift away.

 

"That sounds nice." I tug one of her pigtails gently and the dreamy moment is broken. She smiles wistfully at the now empty stalk before tossing it away.

 

To get to Peeta's house we have to pass by Haymitch Abernathy's first, and unfortunately for me he is on the front porch today. As we walk by his sharp gray eyes glance in our direction and he smirks, taking a quick swig from a glass bottle.

 

"Sweetheart," he greets, bowing his head in mock formality. His gaze cuts to Prim and his smile becomes a little less mocking. "Other sweetheart," he adds. She beams at him, seemingly unaware of the cluster of liquor bottles at his feet.

 

"How are you, Mr. Abernathy?"

 

I try not to smirk at the startled look on his face; he doesn't seem to be used to such politeness. Haymitch puts the bottle down. "Oh, uh," his voice is harsh but slightly uncertain, "Fine."

 

I can't help it; I snort a little and he turns his attention back to me, glaring.

 

"Guess that sweetness doesn't run in the family, huh, sweetheart?"

 

I roll my eyes at him. "Guess not. Come on, Prim." She waves, her fingers curled in a polite goodbye. I hear the swish of liquid as we walk away.

 

Before we're even all the way up the front porch steps, Peeta's door swings open. A figure steps out, just as golden blond but slightly taller and narrower than the one I'm expecting. Bannock Mellark's eyes widen at the sight of us; we all freeze, unsure of how to proceed.

 

"Hello," he says, eyes darting between the two of us. His voice is huskier than Peeta and Farl but his eyes are the apparently trademark Mellark blue. He smiles a little stiffly. Before Prim or I can formulate a response the door opens again and Peeta pokes his head out before stepping out fully.

 

It's already been more than a week since Prim and I first made our way to Victor's Village together and we have been here almost every day, but I am still not used to the way my stomach muscles tighten at the way he smiles, his eyes lighting up as soon as they connect with mine.

 

"Katniss!" he says, and he smile stretches even further. "And Prim!" Peeta steps carefully around his brother to stand beside me. His arm brushes lightly against mine; my stomach swoops again.

 

"Katniss, Prim, this is my brother, Bannock," he says. He lifts his hand to gesture between us and then, instead of dropping back at his side, he places it on the middle of my back. "Bannock, this is Katniss and her little sister Prim." His fingers trace light circles on the fabric of my thin shirt, and I am suddenly aware of how sweaty I am from the July heat. He doesn't seem to mind.

 

"Peet has told me a lot about you, Katniss," Bannock says finally, smiling a little awkwardly. His hand reaches out to shake mine and his grip is surprisingly firm for someone who seems so out of sorts.

 

"It's nice to meet you," I tell him, obviously just as uncomfortable as he is. We've technically met before, dozens of mornings at the bakery as I traded squirrels for bread with his father, but this is the first time we've ever acknowledged each other and we're both well aware of it.

 

I remember Peeta telling me that Bannock had just turned twenty-one — just old enough to have been completely out of my periphery at school, just Merchant enough to never have anything to do with me. I wonder if he's one of the crowd who thinks I am nothing but Seam trash, too dark haired and dark skinned and poor to have anything to do with his Victor brother.

 

The four of us stand silently for a moment; Peeta shuffles a little closer to me, the palm of his hand pressing flat against the curve of my spine. I am constantly surprised by these small touches, no matter how often he does it. Out of the corner of my eye I see him smiling nervously.

 

Prim clears her throat, stepping closer to Bannock. "Are you leaving? We were going to show Peeta how to play Rummy today, we could teach you too." She is laughably small and skinny compared to him, but she doesn't seem to notice.

 

Bannock's forehead wrinkles a little in confusion but he smiles anyway, and this time it reaches his blue eyes. "Sorry, I have to head back to town. I'm supposed to be meeting Meena soon."

 

"Meena is his fiancé," Peeta explains and Bannock's smile becomes instantly more genuine at the mention of it. I nod slightly; she is the jeweler's youngest daughter, a pretty Merchant girl a year older than Gale. Mrs. Mellark must be very pleased with the match.

 

Prim shrugs a shoulder. "Maybe next time?"

 

Bannock makes a vague sound, hedging towards the steps. "Well, it was nice meeting you both." He practically runs down the road, casting anxious glances towards Haymitch as he goes.

 

Peeta's hand still rests on my back; he moves it up, brushing his fingertips against my shoulder blades before swinging it back down to his side. I try not to shiver, but it's impossible.

 

"He's shy," Peeta offers as we stare at Bannock's retreating form. His hand moves back up to cup my elbow, his other hand reaching out to tug Prim's braids.

 

"I'm sure," I say, my tone dry. I look at him skeptically and he grins; I can't help but marvel at how much happier he seems.

 

We spend the rest of the afternoon playing cards. Peeta loses miserably every time and Prim is a terrible gloater; I think my sweet sister might be cheating but she protests hotly when I suggest it. The afternoon is unhurried and golden and easy, the two of them chattering enough to make up for my natural silence.

 

I don't think I could speak if I wanted to anyway; I am far too flustered by the way my knees keep knocking into Peeta's under the table, the way he grins innocently every time.

 

. . .

 

I make my way into the forest early Wednesday morning, crawling quickly under the fence that borders our district and heading straight for the trunk where my arrows are hidden. The air is hushed and still, broken only by the sharp trills of birds in the branches above.

 

I follow a familiar path without even thinking and it leads me to the rock where Gale and I always meet up. With my afternoons taken up by Peeta and Prim, I have been heading into the woods earlier and earlier, somehow never running into Gale. We haven't spoken since our heated argument outside of the mayor's house; he has been diligently avoiding me and I haven't exactly gone out of my way to find him either.

 

This morning, though, he waits for me. His long legs are stretched out in front of him and he stares out at the valley below, not even looking over as I approach even though I'm sure he knows I'm here. The rock is just big enough for two and I crawl up beside him. He passes me his small canteen of water and I take a small sip. We sit there for a long time unproductively, staring at the lush green hills and dips in front of us. I am anxious to start hunting, I don't like these long pensive moments but I know something will be shattered if I leave before he speaks.

 

Finally Gale nudges my elbow. "I don't think you're trash," he says, and though is voice is thick and gruff I can hear the earnestness.

 

I nudge him back. "I know."

 

He finally looks at me, a long sideways glance that I don't meet. "You're my best friend." There is no hesitation, no doubt in his words. I finally turn towards him, meeting his gray eyes and smiling in the way that I only do in the woods.

 

"I'd better be."

 

We don't say anything else all morning but move fluidly, once more completely in sync.

 

. . .

 

The days push forward likes clouds across the sky, slow and lazy and then gone all at once.

 

. . .

 

Before I know it, it is the middle of August. I am up late one night, sorting the different herbs Gale and I managed to gather. Some of them my mother will use to prepare medicines, some of them will be saved and dried for spices split between my family and the Hawthornes, but most of it will be traded at the Hob.

 

Prim and my mother have been asleep for more than an hour when someone knocks softly on the door. My hands freeze, hovering over the plants uncertainly. It isn't unheard of for people to come over late at night, searching for my mother. Children crying, grown men bleeding, wives with bruises on their cheeks. It always makes me uncomfortable to see their pain, their weaknesses, but my mother can never turn them away and she would be furious if I did tonight. I walk over to the door and pull it open; it is not someone looking for my mother.

 

Peeta stands there, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks somehow frantic and sheepish all at once. Prim and I didn't go to his house after school today because of a project she had to work on, and for a moment I wonder if that is why he's here, because he missed seeing me even just one day. The thought makes me strangely warm, no matter how silly it is.

 

I'm so surprised to see him that I can't even formulate an appropriate greeting. "What are you doing here?" It's far after our district's curfew, and there is no electricity in the Seam to light his way; I'm surprised he could even find us in the dark. He has only been here once, a couple of weeks ago when Prim insisted he meet Lady and Buttercup.

 

He laughs a little at my outburst, but I can see the panic in his eyes. He remains silent, looking at me with shadowed blue eyes. I can tell that he has been in bed tonight — his hair is disheveled, sticking out in different directions, a pair of dark blue cotton sleep pants hanging low on his hips. "Peeta?" I reach out and grip his forearm tightly, pulling him into the house and towards the kitchen where I have a few candles burning.

 

It's strange to see Peeta so silent. Words usually come so easily for him, as natural as exhaling, but tonight he just stares at me, his blues eyes dark in the dim light, pupils fat and intense. My hand is still on his arm and I can feel him shaking a little.

 

"I had to see you," he admits finally. "I — I had a dream, a nightmare. It was — the Games, and you, you were—" Peeta shakes his head, closing his eyes tightly. "I haven't seen that before, usually it's just the things that happened, but when I woke up I just, I couldn't remember if it was real or not and…I know it's crazy. I just had to see you, had to make sure you're okay."

 

He does this sometimes, says something so alarmingly intimate that my fingers grow cold and I get scared. But the way he swallows harshly and trembles under my touch tells me this is not a moment I can run away from. I step closer, wrapping my arms around his waist and tucking my head under his chin. For a moment he just stands there numbly; then he holds me tightly, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I can feel every heavy breath warm and humid on my skin.

 

I am not a comforter. It is not something that comes naturally, not even with Prim, but I force myself to. I remember the dark shadows under his eyes, the broken smile when he first came back, and I can't bear the thought of him returning to that. I rub gentle circles on his back, humming softly; it's the same thing I do when Prim wakes up crying for our father.

 

Peeta blinks, his eyelashes tickling my neck, and I can't help but shiver. Reluctantly he pulls away from me. I instantly grow colder, feeling the loss. He laughs again, the sound softer and warmer than it was five minutes ago. I can see the relief written in the gentle slope of his shoulders.

 

"Well now that I've acted like a complete idiot and know that you're alive, I should probably go back home," he whispers with a crooked smile. My hands reach out and grab him before he can move far. I shake my head.

 

"If you get caught you'll be in trouble," I point out.

 

Peeta tilts his head, looking a little confused; he leans back over and kisses my cheek, then the tip of my nose. "It's not like I can stay here." His words are teasing but sure.

 

I lick my lips, not missing the way his eyes dart to my mouth at the motion. I will myself not to blush. "You could." I don't think he's even aware of the way he steps closer when the words leave my mouth.

 

"I'm not sure that's a great idea, Katniss. Farl told me what people have been saying, I don't think—"

 

I shake my head. "They haven't been saying as much lately. And my  _mother_  is here, it's not like we…well. And what if the Peacekeepers catch you? Just stay. It's not — a big deal or anything."

 

Neither us seem to believe that very much, but he finally nods after staring at me a moment longer. "Where should I…?"

 

I grab a candle off the kitchen table, blowing the other one out, and then I lead him to the thin couch in our living room. It is nothing luxurious, but it's all I can offer. We sit beside each other, arms touching. I lean slightly against him, resting my head on his shoulder. "How was your day?"

 

Peeta smiles at the question, leaning his head to rest on mine. "Really good, until I fell asleep," he tells me. He reaches for my hand, twining our fingers together. I fall asleep to the sound of him whispering about a recipe for cranberry bread and the funny thing his father said this morning.

 

. . .

 

In the morning my mother wordlessly shakes us awake. She frowns slightly but doesn't say anything in front of Peeta. He blushes sleepily, looking down at me and smiling.

 

Our hands are still clasped tightly.

 

That afternoon, when Prim and I return home from Peeta's house armed with a fresh loaf of the cranberry bread he told me about last night, my mother sends Prim to the meadow with her goat. As soon as my sister leaves the house she turns to me, face stern and unhappy.

 

"I don't like this, Katniss."

 

I bristle. "Don't like what?"

 

Her eyes dart to the couch she found me on this morning, my legs sandwiched between Peeta's. "This relationship. Dating. You're just too young to be this serious."

 

I feel a cold rage creep over my entire body and when I speak my voice is steely. "I'm too young for a lot of things," I tell her. She takes a small step back as if I've pushed her. "Guess I just had to grow up too fast."

 

We stand there staring at each other for what seems like an eternity; her eyes are wet. "I guess so," she agrees. She turns her back to me and sits down at the kitchen table, carefully resorting the herbs I gathered yesterday. It is silent until Prim comes home half an hour later.

 

It doesn't occur to me until I'm staring out of the window in my first class the next morning that I never denied that Peeta and I were dating.

 

. . .

 

Sometimes Madge or Farl comes with Prim and me to see Peeta or we'll knock on the door to find Bannock and are forced into awkward conversations. But every so often, Prim will have homework and Farl will have a shift at the bakery and Bannock will be flitting off to be with his fiancé and somehow Peeta and I find ourselves alone. As much as I love spending time with Prim, the sweet giggles she shares with Peeta and the lightheartedness she always brings, as much as I begrudgingly have come to like Farl and his constant ribbing, these days are my favorite.

 

We never do anything particular on these days — sometimes he bakes or paints while I watch, or we go on walks. One day we laid in the soft grass of his backyard, out of eyesight of Haymitch, and looked up at the clouds. The wind was strong and the clouds moved quickly, shifting and changing.

 

"I had a dream like this once," I told him while looking straight up at the sky, too embarrassed to look him while I confessed it. "While you were gone."

 

He rolled over until he was on his side, leaning until his face hovered in front of me, and then he kissed me, slow and perfect and long. Afterwards I held his hand, pointing out a cloud that looked like Effie's wig.

 

These are the only days he kisses me, when it is just us. I never thought much about kissing before, but I know he is good at it and I know I like it very much — the way he parts my lips, tugging on my bottom lip gently; the way he frames my face with his hands or tangles his fingers in my braid; the way he pulls back when he needs to breathe again and rests his forehead against mine and our hearts race out of sync.

 

Today is one of those days, and I know what I want to do. September is ending quickly, the days turning short but golden, and the leaves have changed colors in the forest.

 

I rush into his house as soon as he opens the door, grabbing his coat off a nearby hook. "Grab your sketchbook, we're going for a walk."

 

Peeta rolls his eyes at me. "Nice to see you too, Katniss, I had a lovely day, thanks for asking." He turns and hurries down the hallway, his steps loud and echoing. When he returns he is holding a thin bag that I know has his sketchbook and pencils.

 

We walk quickly, our arms brushing as we make our way through town. Peeta is sure to smile at everyone, charming as ever, deflecting every strange look we receive with a flash of his white teeth. He walks slightly behind me, unsure of where we are going; when we reach the meadow he smiles in appreciation.

 

"This is nice," he says, and I can see his eyes scouting for a place to sit and sketch for a while.

 

I shake my head and grab his hand, tugging him further into the thick grass that is turning brown with the season. "Not yet."

 

The path is familiar to me but completely new to him, so I am not surprised that Peeta stops short when we reach the fence. I lean closer, listening for the telltale hum of electricity; it is noticeably absent. His eyes glance up, looking at the orange and red and yellow leaves, so much like his favorite time of day, with an unreadable expression.

 

"Katniss? What are we doing here?" His voice is a pitch lower than usual, hiding something I can't identify.

 

"Baking," I deadpan, lifting up my usual section of the fence and slide under fluidly. The look he gives me is one of pure disbelief and I grin.

 

"What, afraid of getting a little dirty? Here, I'll even hold the fence for you," I tease, lifting up the fence again.

 

Peeta closes his eyes and exhales loudly through his nose. He shakes his head. "No," he says, blue eyes blinking back open and staring at me.

 

I give him what I think is a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, we won't get caught. I just want to show you—"

 

He shakes his head again, harder this time. " _No_ ," he repeats, louder this time, almost angry. "I'm not going in there. I won't."

 

"Peeta—" I drop the part of the fence I am holding, completely taken aback by his reaction.

 

He closes his eyes again, hands curling into fists; I think he might be shaking but it's hard to tell with the distance between us. I should go back under, go back to him, hold his hand and touch his face but instead I am frozen.

 

"I think I'm just — I'm just gonna go back home," he says. He turns and begins to walk away, clumsily crunching the dead grass in his haste. I unfreeze, scrambling back under the fence in record time.

 

I run to catch up to him, my arm stretching out to grab his shoulder. "I can—"

 

Peeta shakes me off, not even turning back to face me; when he speaks his voice is thick. "I'll see you tomorrow, Katniss." And then he walks away.

 

I stand there as he moves farther and farther away from me, my hand still stretched out for him, growing cold in the autumn wind.

 

. . .

. . .


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games or "There is a Time" by the Dillards.

. . .

_Peeta shakes me off, not even turning back to face me; when he speaks his voice is thick. "I'll see you tomorrow, Katniss." And then he walks away._

_I stand there as he moves farther and farther away from me, my hand still stretched out for him, growing cold in the autumn wind._

 

I slip back into the woods for the rest of the afternoon, going through the motions of hunting and gathering. I am too confused to think, too bothered to understand. A gnawing ache sits in the pit of my stomach; I don't like how affected I am. I don't like disappointing people that I care for. I don't like that Peeta has become one of those people.

 

I'm too distracted by the situation at hand and after two missed shots at a family of squirrels I give up; Gale has been busy in the mines, working sun up to sun down, so I follow his snare line and bag the kills. The forest turns dreary with dusk and I have no other choice but to return home.

 

I make my way back to the fence, sliding under. Daylight is fading fast, the orange of sunset turning a dusky gray, and I reach the road while the miners are still making their way to their homes. Their faces are black with soot and so weary that it makes my bones hurt; I wonder if that's what my father looked like when he used to come home to us. I wonder if that's what Gale looks like now.

 

We all make our way hopelessly onward, missing the sunlight.

 

I spend the rest of the night gutting and cleaning my kills, wishing Peeta would knock on the door.

 

He doesn't.

 

. . .

 

That night, I dream of the woods all over again; making my way along the same path we took today, searching for Peeta among blood red leaves. I reach the fence and there he is, on the other side, staring at me helplessly.

 

I feel myself scowl at him. " _I thought you didn't want to go in the woods, Peeta."_

 

He shakes his head sadly. " _I didn't."_  I hear twigs snap in the dark forest behind him; he freezes. Terrified.

 

" _They're coming,"_  he whispers. His clothes are torn and dirty, the same practical clothes he wore during the games.

 

" _Who's coming?"_  And before I can cross over, the fence hums to life and he is beyond my reach.

 

The muttations howl in the distance.

 

I wake with his screams in my ears.

 

. . .

 

When his door swings open, it is immediately obvious that he hasn't slept at all. His blue eyes are dark and weary; they widen in surprise as they take me in, the sun just rising behind me.

 

Before he can say anything, I blurt, "We don't have to go to the woods."

 

"Katni—"

 

"My father used to take me into the woods with him and it was my favorite thing in the world. And the leaves are orange and I just thought — we don't have to go into the woods. I didn't think—"

 

He lurches forward and wraps his arms around me, crushing me to himself with a ferociousness I didn't see coming. And I shouldn't be surprised, because I already know I like kissing Peeta, but the way his lips trace the skin of my neck, and his hands dig into my lower back, slowly sliding to the curve of my bottom—

 

I make a noise that embarrasses me; I feel his lips curl into a smile against my collar bone. "What was that?" he whispers, lips skimming my skin, up to my jaw. The breath of his voice tickles.

 

I barely have it in me to manage a scowl. "Shut up," I mutter. The relief of him, so close and warm and making me feel so impossibly  _good_ is almost too much for me to handle when I remember the way he screamed in my nightmare.

 

He pulls away momentarily, his hands still resting dangerously low on my back. His eyes are piercing and wide and so impossibly blue in the rising sun. The look he gives me is both thrilling and terrifying, partially because I am almost certain it is mirrored on my face — like I am too much and not enough and all encompassing and he would devour me whole in this moment if he could.

 

"I'm sorry I walked away yesterday," he says, his voice low and earnest. "But you just…don't understand. The woods don't have anything good for me, Katniss." He has to close his eyes for a moment, lost in nightmares; I feel a guilty twinge in my stomach and surge forward, framing his face with my small hands and kissing him hard. He groans, and the sound reverberates through my whole being. I don't know when I became this girl, this girl who kisses and touches and feels, but there is no doubt that it's not stopping any time soon.

 

I pull away from him and rest my forehead against his. Our breathing is embarrassingly erratic. "You should have said something," I tell him reproachfully. "Don't you know me at all? Peeta, I'm an idiot at things like that. I had no idea."

 

He frowns. "I just — I just wish I could be that guy. Like Hawthorne. Who can just go with you." He hesitates and then adds, "And I guess, despite all of this—" He gestures in between our bodies, practically flushed together, "I guess I still don't know you that well." I tense a little at the mention of Gale; it's a subject we have yet to broach. I debate my next words carefully.

 

"If I wanted someone like Gale," I say slowly, "I would be kissing Gale right now. And you've still — we've got time. To talk. Got me?" I don't know how to make it any simpler than that, and I can feel him melt against me. He exhales hard.

 

"Got you," he whispers. And the way he holds me tighter after saying it isn't lost on me.

 

. . .

 

Peeta makes tiny, perfect movements with his wrists, his face close to the counter. His expression is quiet and intense, but he breaks it every few moments to look up at me and smile, as if he can sense how uncomfortable I am, sitting here on a stool in the back of the Mellark's bakery, without any squirrels to trade.

 

I don't belong here, not in any lifetime, but then again neither does Peeta anymore — a fact his mother makes clear with each hostile pass through them room, breathing harshly through her nose, sweeping through frantically as if to make sure no piping bags full of frosting have made their way into my pockets. It's completely inappropriate for a Victor to be slaving over mere cupcakes; it's  _unthinkable_ for his poor slut girlfriend to be there with him.

 

But here we are, a day away from the Harvest Festival, surrounded by more cupcakes than I could have ever imagined. For the first time in more than twenty years, the Harvest Festival is something to be celebrated, more than just huddling and dancing to simple songs around a large fire. This year we have a victor and food parcels; the Capitol is being highly generous and has commissioned the bakery to provide goods for the festival as part of this month's parcel delivery.

 

Watching him work is — I'm not sure. The way he is able to concentrate so fully on one thing makes my breath catch, takes my thoughts to places they have never been, makes me nervous and excited and guilty. I don't know what I am doing. Here. With this boy.

 

As if he can read my thoughts, Peeta looks back up at me and smiles crookedly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Okay?"

 

Yes. No. "Peeta—" He frowns, setting down the piping bag, scooting his stool closer to me.

 

"What is this?" His mother storms back in, as if she has been waiting for such a moment. "If this girl is distracting you," she says, cutting her eyes quickly towards me, "then she needs to go. This is an important event, Peeta, it was an honor to be asked, and I won't have you  _wasting_ —"

 

Peeta scowls, the look out of place on him. "Mother—"

 

She turns to me, the same determined look on her face that Peeta wears when he bakes. "Look girl," she says, her tone clipped. "Don't you think this has gone on long enough? This — whatever this is? My son is a Victor. A winner. And what are you? You are  _nothing_. You are a lawbreaker, a filthy, common criminal that doesn't know where her next meal will come from. How many times did you speak to my son before he won, hm? How many times?" My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Peeta looks stricken.

 

Mrs. Mellark smirks triumphantly. "Exactly. Peeta was too foolish to hide his infatuation with you when you were younger, but you didn't choose to reciprocate until he was wealthy? Guaranteed a house and an income? The whole town knows what you are up to, Katniss Everdeen. Just like your father, you are, messing where you don't belong."

 

I feel my face flush hotly — no one has so boldly accused me of these things to my face. "Mrs. Mellark—"

 

Peeta stands up, blocking me from his mother. "You have no right," he says through gritted teeth.

 

She scoffs, accentuating the hard lines of her face. "I'm your mother, I have every right."

 

My hands tremble; I begin edging toward the door. The door to the front room swings open and Mr. Mellark walks in cheerfully. His smile drops when he sees the obvious tension. He swallows visibly, eyes darting towards his wife. "Agatha?"

 

Mrs. Mellark puts her hands on her hips, letting out an annoyed huff. "Don't you 'Agatha' me, Proja, you  _know_  this nonsense—"

 

"We're leaving," Peeta says abruptly, turning around and grabbing my wrist without even looking at me, pulling me towards the door. Mrs. Mellark lets out a shriek.

 

"Peeta!" Mr. Mellark calls loudly, clearly angry. Peeta stops but doesn't turn back, his grip still hard on my wrist. "We  _need_  you."

 

"Peeta," I murmur, casting my eyes to the floor, "I can just—"

 

"Katniss is welcome to stay," his father says. I turn quickly, see him frown at his wife.

 

"Proja," she says insistently, "that girl—"

 

" _Katniss_  is Peeta's girlfriend," Mr. Mellark says sharply. "She has never been anything but lovely, and she is welcome here any time she likes."

 

I freeze again, so still I could break apart. Mrs. Mellark glares at me once more, turning her angry glance at her husband and son. When neither yields, she frowns deeply.

 

"The cupcakes need to be finished by 6, sharp," she says gruffly, turning and stalking out. When the door slams shut, Mr. Mellark closes his eyes and breathes out deeply. "Don't—" He shakes his head. "Don't worry about that. You're always welcome here, Katniss. You're practically family." And then he follows his wife out of the room.

 

Peeta is still facing the door, breathing hard. I tug my wrist out of his grasp and he looks down, as if he is noticing that he grabbed me for the first time. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply. "Katniss," he says softly.

 

"I don't want to get married," I blurt out, interrupting. Peeta looks back up at me, shocked, but I continue. "I don't like dating. It scares me. I never — I never wanted this, I never wanted to be this person. God, Peeta, I never even  _thought_  about kissing until the Justice Building. You are the first person I ever — do you  _know_  what losing my father did to my mother?  _Do you know?_ "

 

"Katniss—"

 

"When people call me your girlfriend, it scares me," I confess. "I've never…it's a dumb word, it's stupid, I never planned—"

 

"We're sixteen, Katniss," Peeta says quietly, taking my hand again; he locks our fingers together gently. "We don't have to think about getting  _married_. And I know…I  _know_  things have been hard for you, and I know how scared you are, and I can only imagine—" He shakes his head, squeezing my hand tight. "You can be whatever you want to be, Katniss. You can call yourself whatever you want to. I just want to be with you, every day for the rest of my life. I don't care what that means or what that's called or what anyone else thinks."

 

I swallow hard, looking at our intertwined fingers, and my chest feels tight with something too hard to name. I look back up at him; his face is drawn and resigned, as if he knows I will pull away with those words. "Okay," I say softly, squeezing back.

 

His expression changes to something indefinable. "You'll allow it?"

 

I step closer, until our toes touch. "I'll allow it."

 

We spend the rest of the afternoon in silence, Peeta frosting intricate designs, stealing glances at me every so often that I can't put a name to but make me turn red all the same.

 

Mrs. Mellark doesn't come back through.

 

. . .

 

A group of men my father probably knew sit by the bonfire, picking at ragged old instruments and humming softly. For once, no one cares about Seam or Merchant, too content with cupcakes and Capitol parcels, the entire town lit up by firelight; everything looks softer, happier than it really is.

 

For once, I don't mind the crowd; Madge, Prim, Farl, and Peeta surround me, talking quietly. People forget to give us strange looks, too caught up in the good mood to care. Madge and Farl sit side by side, discussing something I don't care about and Prim darts over across the square because she sees Rory; Peeta and I sit to the right of Madge and Farl, on a bench, close enough for our shoulders to brush. He smells like sugar and smoke, and keeps pointing out ways that Farl is flirting with Madge — his constant stream of jokes, the way he brushes his hand against hers, the way he is listening intently to everything she says.

 

I wonder if Madge is as oblivious as I would be; I see her eyes flit over the square, observing everyone. I always thought that was something Madge and I had in common — our disinterest in boys. We never talked about things like that, about boys or dating or anything most girls talk about. Even with Peeta in the Games, our discussions were cryptic and largely unromantic.

 

The men by the fire count down from three and begin playing a familiar tune, one my father sang when I was young. " _There is a time for love and laughter, the days will pass like summer storms."_  I smile bittersweetly, singing along. " _The winter wind will follow after, but there is love and love is warm."_

 

Beside me, Peeta goes still; his hand finds mind and holds tight. I stop and look at him; his expression is strange and dazed. "Peeta?"

 

He shakes his head. "Keep going."

 

" _There is a time when leaves are falling_  
"The woods are gray, the paths are old  
"The snow will come when geese are calling  
"You need a fire against the cold."

 

I remember the way my mother looked at my father when he sang, like he was spring time. And I wonder where she is tonight, if she can hear this song all the way in the Seam and misses him still.

 

" _So do your roaming in the springtime_  
"And you'll find your love in the summer sun  
"The frost will come and bring the harvest  
"And you can sleep when day is done."

 

The music stops abruptly, but the look on Peeta's face doesn't fade — like I am spring time. I think back to the story he told me months ago at the Justice building, about the first time he heard me sing.  _That's when I knew_ , he said.

 

A shadow flickers across us, and I look up. Gale stands there, iron and shadow and frown. "You have a nice voice, Catnip," he says; in the dark I cannot see his eyes. I'm aware of how close I am to Peeta, and his grip tightens on my hand.

 

"Thanks," I say uncomfortably. I didn't even know he was around to hear.

 

"Hey, Gale," Peeta says, shifting even closer to me. Gale looks at him, nods slightly.

 

"Mellark." I think of the things I never told Peeta, the things that happened after he went into the Games. I become aware of Madge and Farl beside us once more when Gale looks over at them, his expression still unreadable. "Undersee," he says, and his tone is cold.

 

Madge looks back at him evenly. "Hawthorne." Farl fidgets beside her awkwardly, and Gale scowls at him before looking back at me.

 

"See you later," he mutters. And then he is gone.

 

"That was weird," Peeta says quietly. I shrug, not meeting his eyes. "Anything I should know about?" he asks lightly.

 

"He's my best friend," I tell him simply. We sit there in silence, somehow farther apart than we were before.

 

. . .

 

They interview Peeta one night in December, and the broadcast is a mandatory viewing. They discuss the ever approaching Victory Tour, Peeta's talent, life after winning the Games. Pictures of us flash across the screen, pictures that I never even knew existed — sitting in his backward, baking in his kitchen, me watching him steadily as he prepared the cupcakes for the Festival. The interviewer hints at our unusual relationship.

 

"I hear it's caused quite a stir in your district," the green skinned man says curiously, leaning forward. "Aren't there certain barriers to your relationship?"

 

Peeta shrugs, his smile genuine but firm. "I guess some people think so," he says, shaking his head ruefully. "But I don't think it matters where someone comes from, what their class is or what people think. Katniss is…extraordinary, and I've been crazy about her practically my whole life. I'm not going to let something like where we come from dictate who I love."

 

My heart freezes in my chest, something iron heavy settling in my stomach.

 

. . .

 

When Haymitch appears at my door the next morning, gesturing wordlessly for me to join him, I am not surprised. I follow him out to the meadow wordlessly, flopping down gracelessly on the grass beside him as he explains the danger lurking around the corner.

 

"You can't just go denouncing the Capitol's system as though it's nothing," he says, taking a swig from his flask even though the sun is still rising. "That just  _smacks_  of rebellion."

 

"He didn't mean to be rebellious," I say quietly, hands pulling at the dead grass nervously.

 

Haymitch shrugs. "Doesn't matter if he meant it," he says grimly.

 

"How — how can he fix it?"

 

He drinks again, gazing at the fence thoughtfully. "The Victory Tour is coming up," he reminds me. "Our little Victor just needs to be golden through that, say all the right things. Hopefully Snow won't make anything of it."

 

We agree once more to keep the danger from Peeta — he's better off not knowing, really.

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obnoxiously Long Notes:
> 
> In December, I posted an author's note as an FYI but took it down quickly because notes as chapters violates FFN policy. So in case you didn't see my note, here is an explanation of my absence! Right after Thanksgiving, I got some big news: I got an internship completely across the country teaching preschool. I work very long hours and since I don't really get paid for my internship, I use a lot of my free time to babysit, so writing time has been very hard to find. You may also notice that I have started a new story, Normal Again. This is a brief WIP and is already completely planned out, so it doesn't really take too much time away from this story. This story is not abandoned and I have not just been lazy; unfortunately, real life and my internship have to come first. Trust me, I would love to write fanfiction all day long! But this was just too good of an experience to pass up. I hope this hasn't been to big of an inconvenience; if it has, I apologize but there is nothing I can do.
> 
> I hope this chapter lived up to expectations! The feedback last time was so great, and I hate that I had to leave you hanging for so long. On the bright side, I already have plans for the Quell! That should be making an appearance in a few chapters. Questions? Thoughts?
> 
> EXTREMELY IMPORTANT DETAIL: I am considering splitting this story after this chapter, as a new story arc will begin. I'm not sure if I will do it starting next chapter or after the tour, but make sure you add me to your author alerts just in case!
> 
> Feel free to find me on tumblr: swishywillow.
> 
> For timeline purposes: Harvest Festival is roughly at the end of October. Although only a few key scenes are included, this chapter spanned from approximately the end of September to the beginning of December.


	15. Chapter 15

Gale and I follow the snare line back to the fence silently, our feet crunching over the fresh layer of snow on the ground. It always seems to be impossible to me to hunt quietly in new snow — no matter how light my tread is, my feet sink in. Our haul is meager today. The forest has reached a sleepy time of year, when all the animals have hidden away to escape the cold. It is barely enough to feed our families. There is no trading to be done today, we have nothing to offer.

Our relationship has been strained ever since the festival in October. Even now, in mid December, things are still tense. Something about seeing the two of us together set Gale completely on edge. Things had already been hard since he started the mines; now the Sunday mornings we spend together are mostly hushed, neither of us willing to bring up the situation. Although he hasn’t said anything in since our last argument in the summer, I can tell Gale is growing increasingly bitter about the time I’ve been spending with Peeta.

After we slide back under the fence and begin to trudge through the frozen meadow, I bump my shoulder against his. His smile is easier today; I try to imagine him crammed into an elevator, sliding into the earth where our fathers died.

“How is work?” I ask finally. His smile falls and I frown. What a stupid question.

“Awful,” he says shortly, swinging the hunting bag over his shoulder. “You can’t imagine. It’s—“ He shakes his head, glaring at the ground as we walk.

“I won’t have to imagine soon,” I say tersely. The thought has been weighing heavily in my mind; two more reapings and then it is the mines for me. Sometimes I have nightmares about it, suffocating miles away from the sunlight that I so desperately crave. I wonder what Peeta will think of me when I am covered head to toe in coal dust.

Gale gives me a skeptical look. “What are you talking about?”

“After my last Reaping,” I shrug. “Not like there are any other options for me.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

I stop walking, planting my hands on my hips. “What?”

“Like your little Victor would allow that.” The way he rolls his eyes, the look on his face almost a sneer, guts me.

“He won’t have any say in the matter,” I remind him stiffly. And it’s true. It’s not as if — well.

“Sure, okay,” he mumbles. He doesn’t look at me much again as we walk through the meadow, and when we reach the road again he doesn’t say anything when I break away and head towards Victor’s Village.

. . .

I let myself into Peeta’s house; he insisted a few weeks ago that I don’t have to knock, that I’m always welcome. When I find him in the kitchen his face brightens, his hands knuckle deep in fresh dough. Before he can speak I press the palms of my hands down on the counter, let out a deep breath.

“I’m going to work in the mines when I’m 18,” I blurt out. “That’s it for me. There are no choices.” If he is surprised by the topic, he doesn’t show it. He just raises an eyebrow and continues to knead.

“You want to work in the mines?”

I scowl. “I don’t  _want_  to, I have to.” I frown, dropping my gaze to my dirty hands against the cool, clean marble. “It’s all there is for me.”

Peeta nods thoughtfully. “Well,” he says slowly, putting the dough into a loaf pan and covering it loosely with a towel, “If that’s how you feel.”

“It’s how it is,” I say flatly.

He wipes his hands on his apron and walks around the counter. When he reaches me his hands find my hips, tug me closer. He places a light kiss on my lips before pulling away, smiling when I try to follow him. “My shower will always be open for you when you get too dirty,” he teases.

I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself.

When I leave to go home hours later, he insists I take the bread with me, promising it would just go stale if I leave it there. As I clutch it tightly under my jacket on the walk back, it is hard to tell if the warmth in my chest is from the freshly baked bread or the baker himself.

. . .

Two weeks before the Tour, Peeta comes over to my house; it is not as strange as I would have thought, having him here. He fits smoothly into our life, teasing Prim and exchanging awkward smiles with my mother. When he catches my eye he beams, grinning at the way I blush. It is comforting and terrifying all at once and there is no changing it now.

After an evening of Rummy (Peeta continues the tradition we’ve established of turning a blind eye towards Prim’s cheating, letting her win every time), my mother goes to bed. Prim and Peeta sit across from each other, teasing like old friends. And I find my eyes getting heavier and heavier, my head leaning to rest on his shoulder.

I don’t know how long I sleep, but suddenly his arm is around me. My limbs are heavy and he is so warm; my eyes stay shut but I can’t help but overhear.

“I’m sure our mother could give you an herbal remedy, maybe a tea that would help.” Prim’s voice is soft but firm, deep in her healer mode. I feel him shake his head.

“No, I don’t think I’ll need anything.”

I can practically hear her gentle frown. “But your nightmares—“

He stiffens against me, his hold tighter than it was before. “They won’t be a problem.”

Prim sighs. “Katniss isn’t the only one who cares about you, you know. When you gave her that bread—“

“That was a long time ago.”

“—It saved all three of us. I just want to help you.”

Peeta squirms a little and I know he is uncomfortable with this conversation. “I’ll think about it,” he says finally. I open my eyes wide enough to see Prim through my eyelashes, smiling doubtfully. After watching him for a minute she stands up, brushing off her pants and walking towards our bedroom.

“If you’re going home you should probably leave soon,” she says softly. “Curfew starts soon.”

“I will in a minute.” His arm squeezes me. “I just want to tell Katniss goodbye.”

I hear her footsteps down the hallway, the squeak of our door as it shuts. All is quiet.

Finally he pokes me in the side and I jolt a little, still keeping my eyes closed. “I know you’re awake.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I smile guiltily, blinking my eyes open and leaning my head back to look at him. His pupils are wide in the dim room, the blue of his irises dark. “You should think about her offer,” I say lightly. His smile drops a little as he shrugs.

“I better get going.” He moves to pull his arm away and I moan my protest, grabbing his arm and holding it close to me.

“But you’re so warm.”

He laughs a little. “I think you’re thinking of the blanket,” he teases. For the first time I notice on of the thicker blankets Prim and I usually share covering me. They must have put it on me while I slept. I lift the cover and scoot closer, draping it over him too.

“It’s so cold outside, Peeta. It’s probably snowing again, and the streetlights won’t be on. Just stay. My mom won’t mind.” She won’t mind enough to say anything to him about it, anyway.

He leans into me. “I shouldn’t…”

I can’t help but smile; my head finds its place on his should again, and I tug the blanket up to my shoulder, curling my legs under me and leaning against him fully. “Stay.” He doesn’t respond for a long moment; when he does I am almost asleep, and his answer is too quiet for me to hear.

He is still there, when I wake up with the dawn. Our arms have wrapped tightly around each other to ward off the cold.

I wonder if he had any nightmares.

. . .

I storm into Haymitch’s house one afternoon after school, ten days before Peeta leaves; I wade through the filth and empty bottles to make my way into the kitchen. He stares at me, flummoxed.

“Sight for sore eyes, aren’t ya?” He takes a swig from his bottle in his grip and I scowl.

“This place is disgusting.” It really is. I wrinkle my nose at the rancid smell; piles of unwashed dishes are stacked around the kitchen. Haymitch himself looks as if he hasn’t changed clothes since he returned from the Capitol. The entire place is a biological hazard, it’s a wonder he isn’t dead.

“Well I didn’t know you were coming or I would’ve set out the good china,” he says dryly. “What do you want?”

Gingerly I pull out a chair, knocking off the pile of trash occupying it, ignoring his protests. “What’s the plan?” I fold my arms over my chest sternly, glaring at him.

He looks amused. “Come again?”

“Peeta leaves in ten days,” I remind him impatiently. “Remember that ‘constant danger’ talk you gave me when he came back? How will you protect him? What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” Haymitch snorts, takes another drink of the white liquor he is holding. “The plan is to stay alive, sweetheart. Not much else we can do.”

I grit my teeth in irritation, fuming as he takes another swallow. Without thinking I reach forward and knock it from his hand. Before it has even touched the floor his fingers have wrapped around my wrist, squeezing hard. Neither of us look away when the bottle shatters.

“I’d think twice before doing that again, sweetheart,” he warns. I huff, wrenching my arm from his grasp.

“You need to take this seriously.”

His look turns deadly serious in an instant. “You have no idea how seriously I’m taking this.” He glowers at me, eyes narrowed. “You’re not the only one who wants him safe.” We stay that way for a long moment, glaring at each other.

When I leave, I am somehow more anxious than before.

. . .

Somehow we have ended up here again, tangled together in a way that I could have never imagined. His head rests close to my chest, his warm exhale feathering over the sensitive skin exposed at the collar of my shirt. His arm has wrapped around me. Sometime while he was asleep his hand slipped under the hem of my shirt and now rests low on my back; every time I shift, he grips me, and the way his fingers slide against my skin makes me shiver. The cold December air floats through the open window, and I gently shift the blanket high up to our shoulders.

The Victory Tour is a week away.

We haven't really discussed it – the dread thickens like a cool fog every day, but he still refuses to speak about it, refuses to note the uneasy glances Haymitch and I sometimes exchange when we are forced to interact.

He hasn't questioned the way I linger, though, the way Prim and I haven't left his house before sunset in ages, the way I find reasons to come see him more and more, even on Saturdays when I could be hunting. I know that the forest is frozen and empty right now, and the time spent with Peeta is more fruitful than any foraging could be this time of year. 

His knee knocks against mine in his sleep, and he lets out a particularly deep sigh as his leg slips between mine and he slides that much closer to me on the bed. I lean my head down to rest my forehead against his. His eyelashes are long and pale, jumping slightly as his eyes move in his dreams. 

His dreams are why I'm here, really. Although he doesn't like to talk about them, I know his nightmares have increased in frequency, more and more as the Tour approaches. I can tell by the shadows under his eyes and the ever increasing stack of paintings leaning against the wall in the study. Some days he stares blankly into space, flinching at any noise that he doesn’t expect, lost in the terrible memories. And today, after a halfhearted attempt at watching him bake the last Saturday morning away, I just tugged on his arm and led him to bed. He gave me a smile and melted beside me, pulling me close the way he only does when we are alone.

And although he fell asleep hours ago, I have done nothing but watch the sun’s reflection slide up and down the wall and count the freckles that are scattered across his cheeks. I am glad the Capitol left him with these.

I am more terrified than usual of how much I care. I’m not sure why it’s hit me so suddenly — maybe because, a week from now, he will be speeding off towards the Capitol, making his way through the places that raised children for him to kill. I know there is no danger, not really. Too many Peacekeepers, too much fear. He will not be harmed.

But Peeta, sweet Peeta. I still don’t know how he will make it through.

He flinches against me, his hand gripping me harder than it was seconds before. A soft sound escapes his mouth, just a whisper, but I can tell by the way his whole body has gone rigid that something is wrong.

“Peeta,” I call softly. It is a careful voice. I will not let it tremble. “Peeta, wake up. It’s just a dream.” I pull away from him slightly and his eyes blink open, his pupils fat. His breaths come hard and fast as he pulls me closer.

“Just a dream,” I whisper again; he has pulled me so close that my lips brush the hollow of his throat when I speak, and he shivers slightly.

“I don’t want to leave,” he murmurs into my hair, resting his cheek against me.

“We have all day,” I assure him. I place a soft kiss on his skin and he sighs. I know that is not what he meant, but it is all I can give him. His fingers twine in my hair.

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now and live in it forever.” I don’t have to be looking into his blue eyes to see the earnestness I know is there. It is a foolish notion, I know, one I never would have entertained before this began.

But really, there are worse games to play.

“Okay.” I pull back to smile at him, and his face lights up.

“You’ll allow it, then?” It’s a question he has taken to asking me, a gentle way to poke fun at my need for control. He is teasing, the panic from his nightmare forgotten as he smiles down at me. His eyes dart down to my lips and I know he wants to kiss me.

“I’ll allow it.” My tone is more solemn than I mean for it to be, and his smile drops a little, his expression changing to something else altogether. I bury my head back in the curve of his neck, unable to bear the intensity in his gaze anymore.  My ear rests near his pulse point, the steadiness of his heart soothing me, and he wraps his arms around me again, his fingers slipping back under my shirt tracing patterns I can’t distinguish against the skin of my back.

We stay that way for hours, until my stomach growls and we both laugh and I allow him to make me cheese buns. On the walk home, after kissing him goodbye for longer than I should have, I allow myself to think about an eternity with Peeta Mellark. I know it is nonsense, but it helps.

Six more days.

. . .

I stare at the coarse tessarae bread I packed this morning for lunch, along with a mealy apple left over from Parcel Day. Our house has been freezing cold, helping us preserve the fruit longer than usual. My mouth is dry though; despite the slim pickings we’ve gotten while hunting I find that I have no appetite.

“You okay?” When I look up, Madge’s pale blue eyes are trained on me, her smile sympathetic.

I bristle, shrugging. “Just not hungry.”

She nods, staring at her own sandwich. Hers is on fluffy white bread, probably fresh from the bakery. She takes a bite and chews; I pick up my apple and take a tiny bite, trying to appease her. She hesitates for a moment after she swallows and then puts it back down on the table, folding her arms primly in front of her and leaning in.

“Can I teach you to play the piano?”

The question is so sudden and unexpected that I choke on the hunk of apple in my mouth. “What? Why?”

Madge shrugs, playing with the hem of her shirt. “Well a couple of merchant families have asked my father about lessons but I’m just not sure I would be a good teacher. I thought it would be nice to practice on a friend.” I glare at her skeptically and she falters. “And, you know, with the Victory Tour starting in a couple of days I thought you might have more free time in the afternoons. And it’s too cold to hunt that much and—“

“Madge,” I cut her off gently. It’s hard to swallow with the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. “I — I probably won’t be a very good student.”

She smiles brightly, lighting up her whole face. “I probably won’t be a good teacher,” she confesses.

We eat the rest of lunch in a companionable silence; when the bell rings, we go our separate ways.

. . .

That afternoon as Prim and I walk through town to get to Peeta’s house we pass by the bakery. Farl catches my eye through the glass panes, waving weakly. I haven’t seen Farl much lately; he started working in the bakery full time after the summer break and since Peeta and his mother argued about me right before the Harvest Festival the visits his family used to make have waned dramatically. I’m surprised to hear feet pounding on the pavement behind us after we round the corner; when we turn around I see Farl behind us, slightly out of breath and carrying a white bakery bag.

“Hey Katniss,” he pants. He gives Prim a charming smile that she returns. “Little Katniss.”

I roll my eyes. “You know her name, Farl.”

He grins. “You two going to Peeta’s?”

I nod as Prim beams at him. “Wanna come with us?” she asks eagerly.

Farl’s smile slips a little, his eyes less bright. “Well,” he says hesitantly, “I’m kind of busy right now. We’re really swamped at the bakery…” He sighs. “In fact, it looks like I’m going to be really busy for the next couple of days.”

Prim frowns. “But Peeta leaves—“

“Prim.” I squeeze her shoulder gently, shaking my head.

“Do you think you could give this to him?” He holds out the bag; when I peek inside I see it’s filled with chocolate chip cookies. “Dad made them for him,” he says sheepishly. “They were always his favorite growing up even though we couldn’t really eat them.”

I nod. “Sure.”

He lingers another moment, and when he says goodbye it is full of regret.

When we give the cookies to Peeta he clutches the bag in his fist. He pulls a cookie out and smells it, taking a small bite.

Prim spends the rest of the afternoon trying to cheer him up and when we leave that evening, I hold him longer than usual.

. . .

And then suddenly it is the evening before the Victory Tour; the days slipped by too quickly, each afternoon we spent together more fleeting than the last. Today I rushed over as soon as school was over. I wanted to skip it altogether but Peeta had refused, not wanting me to get in trouble.

 The sun has begun to set, though it is hard to tell through the thick layer of clouds, and snow is falling earnestly now. We stand on his porch shivering together, our arms wrapped around each other tighter than usual. When he speaks his voice is forlorn.

“You should probably leave now, before it gets too bad.”

I nod against his chest. “Probably.” Neither of us moves.

“You’ll come by tomorrow?” His tone is soft and pleading, his blue eyes earnest. “Before I leave?”

And although the last thing I want is to be trapped in his sitting room with his grotesque Capitol entourage, I know I will. I nod again, leaning up on the tips of my toes and kissing him on the cheek. “A blizzard couldn’t keep me away,” I promise lightly. And when he pulls away to look at my face, everything about it is so intense that it makes me shiver in way that is not from the cold. My arms slip into his coat, hugging him closer to me; his cold hands reach up and cup my face, his thumbs soothing the line of my jaw. And when he kisses me, it is deeper and scarier and better than it has been before, something I didn’t even think possible.

“I love you,” he says after he pulls away, so quietly I wonder if I can pretend not to hear. His forehead rests against mine and he must feel the way I flinch; my eyes stay focused on his mouth, too afraid to meet his eyes. It is impossible to miss the way the corners of his lips tip down. “You don’t have to say it back,” he whispers. “I just — I wanted you to know, before I leave.”

I can’t say it back. I don’t even know if it would be true if I could. So instead I allow my cold hands to slip under the hem of his sweater, fascinated at the way he shudders against me.

“I’ll be here in the morning,” I say finally, my fingers tracing snares on the skin of his back. “And I’ll be here when you get back.” It is all I have to offer; the way he leans into me gives me hope that it is enough.

When I leave moments later, he stands on the porch and watches me until I am out of sight. I know because I see him every time I turn my head back, wishing I could have somehow stayed.

The entire way home I think of him — of the journey coming up, of the two weeks we will spend apart, of Haymitch’s worries, of the potential danger Peeta will always be in that he isn’t really even aware of.

I’m so distracted, in fact, that when I reach my home it takes a long moment for me to realize what is out of place. When I see it though, it is impossible to miss — a sleek black car, completely out of place in the rundown Seam. The roof of the car is sprinkled with a light dusting of snow.

It takes a moment to hit me. The streetlights are on in the Seam, a luxury we are rarely provided. The electricity is running in full force. And inside of my house—

The door opens, and my mother steps out. “Katniss,” she calls, her gaze locking on me instantly. I wonder how long she has been waiting for me. “Please come inside.” Her voice is stilted, her face tight with anxiety.

“What’s going on?” The closer I get the more I can see the fear in her eyes.

“We have a visitor,” she says quietly. “He’s been waiting for you.”

Something like dread sits heavy in my stomach. I wrack my brain, searching for an answer. “Who is it?”

Her hand shakes as she reaches out to clasp mine; when her eyes meet mine, they are fully alert, wide with terror.

“The President,” she whispers. And then, before I am ready, she pulls me inside.

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling readers, I apologize for the long delay. This story is off of its unofficial hiatus now and will be experiencing fairly regular updates, as long as my RL cooperates! Thanks so much to anonalece on tumblr for betaing most of this chapter. Any mistakes you find are completely my own because I was too excited to wait!
> 
> Come find me on tumbr: swishywillow.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mitches for the preread, you're the best!

_Her hand shakes as she reaches out to clasp mine; when her eyes meet mine, they are fully alert, wide with terror._

 

_“The President,” she whispers. And then, before I am ready, she pulls me inside._

 

. . .

 

The fire blazes in the stove with more kindling than we can afford to use at once; Prim sits on the threadbare couch, her face illuminated by the golden flames. When she hears the door shut behind us, she turns and gives me a forced smile. Her eyes dart to the kitchen, her smile falling slightly.

 

And there, sitting at our kitchen table made of thin plywood, sipping tea out of my mother’s only good china, is President Snow. A Capitol man stands next to him, arms crossed menacingly. When he sees me, he holds a finger up, gesturing for me to wait. He takes another long sip of tea before placing his cup on the table and ignoring the way it wobbles on the uneven surface.

 

“Ah, Miss Everdeen,” his mouth stretches into a wide, sinister smile. His lips are thick and puffy, probably intended to make him look more appealing, but it has the opposite effect. “I’m so glad you could finally join us.” His cold, snakelike eyes roam over me, taking in my appearance. “I assume you were…out for a walk?” The knowing look in his eyes freezes my insides.

 

I’m silent for a long moment until my mother squeezes my shoulder. “No sir,” I say finally. “I was spending the afternoon with Peeta.”

 

Snow smiles in satisfaction. “Ah, yes, our most beloved Victor. I’m sure he was happy to spend his last evening in the district with you.”

 

I swallow hard. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting—“

 

He shakes his head benignly. “No matter.” He smiles broadly at my mother and Prim, gesturing to his tea. “Your family has been an excellent host, I have never had such fine tea.” My mother seems to relax at this, smiling back tentatively. Snow looks back at me, cold eyes locking on my own. No matter how friendly he seems I know something is terribly wrong. “But I’m sure they’re quite tired by now, it is rather late…” He trails off, and my mother nods hesitantly, wrapping her hand around Prim’s arm and tugging her towards the hallway that leads to the room we sleep in.

 

“Good night, Katniss,” Prim says softly. She casts her eyes warily once more in the President’s direction.

 

“’Night, Little Duck.” I try to smile reassuringly but I am certain it falls flat. Snow’s guard follows them a few steps into the hallway and then stops, lingering in the shadows, reminding me that we are not alone. It is both a terror and a comfort.

 

I stand there for another moment, trying to come to grips with the situation. I feel like I have been trapped at the top of a tree with wilds dogs at the bottom, waiting for me to lose my balance and fall. He looks at me expectantly, hands clasped neatly in his lap; very slowly, I walk to the table and sit in the chair across from him. I tuck my hands under my thighs so he cannot seem them shake.

 

“It’s a pleasure to have you in our home, sir,” I tell him quietly, meeting his eyes with caution.

 

He clucks his tongue, shaking his head at me in disapproval. “Oh, Miss Everdeen, I think we can make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other.”

 

This puts me strangely at ease. “I think you’re right.”

 

President Snow smiles again. “I’ve been anxious to meet you for quite some time, you know. Ever since Mr. Mellark somehow managed to win and it was discovered just who his secret love was.”

 

I feel my forehead wrinkle in confusion. “Why would that matter to you?”

 

He laughs dismissively. “My dear, Peeta is a Victor now. He belongs to the Capitol. So of course, when we discovered he was spending so much of his time with a known rebel—“

 

“Rebel?” I feel my blood run cold, and I grip down hard on the chair. “I’m not—“

 

He raises an eyebrow, clearly annoyed. “Ah, ah, Miss Everdeen, I thought we agreed not to lie to each other?”

 

I’m silent for a long moment, staring at him. My heart beats double time in my chest, and my face feels flushed with my fear. “I’m not — I’m not a rebel,” I say finally, my words slow. “I just want to provide for my family.”

 

He leans in across the table, close enough that I can smell his breath as he speaks, like tea and something coppery, almost like blood. “A noble cause to be sure, but I assure what you are doing is quite rebellious. It is almost laughable how easy it was to discover your true nature. I could have you shot a hundred times over for your crimes this month alone.”

 

A sound of horror escapes me, and he smiles grimly. “It’s not just you, though, is it?” he muses. “Your mother and sister use the illegal herbs and plants you gather. Of course, there’s also the matter of your hunting partner. And the dozens of other people who willingly trade with you. All of them, guilty of treason. It seems District 12 has been lax in its security measures, if a simple girl can entangle so many people in her treachery.”

 

My breath catches in my chest, every inhale a struggle. I knew the danger I faced every day but I never imagined it would come to this, come to having everything I love being threatened. “What if I stopped?” My thoughts race in my head furiously. I have no idea how we would survive, but we would have to. There is no other option.

 

Snow scoffs. “You think that would solve the problem? Stopping? If that was the solution I would have ended you months ago.” From his pocket he pulls a small device; at the press of a button, Peeta’s face is projected in the air, his sweet smile beaming at my cupboard, his blue eyes seeing right through me.

 

_“But I don’t think it matters where someone comes from, what their class is or what people think. Katniss is…extraordinary, and I’ve been crazy about her practically my whole life. I’m not going to let something like where we come from dictate who I love.”_

 

I meet his eyes again after the recording is done. Peeta’s face hovers in the air for a moment, and then the space between us is empty. The President frowns deeply, showing lines around his mouth that no Capitol procedure can hide. “Imagine how distressing it is, Miss Everdeen,” Snow says coolly, leveling me with a bland frown, “for a Victor to so publicly condone rebellion against the Capitol’s laws.”

 

“Peeta would never—“

  
“But no matter.” He waves his hands in the air dismissively, smiling once more. “There are many ways to keep a Victor in line.” My eyes narrow, remembering the horrible scenarios Haymitch threw out when Peeta first returned home.

 

“And that’s why you’re here,” I realize. “To keep him in line.”

 

He nods in approval at my realization. “You see, I agree with you that Mr. Mellark isn’t knowingly encouraging rebellion. He seems far too… _good_ for that. And the country is rather attached to him at the moment, what with your sweet love story. So I don’t think that my usual methods of persuasion would be as effective.”

 

“Like killing me,” I say flatly.

 

He chuckles. “For starters.”

 

I shrug. “So you want me to…what? Give up hunting and convince Peeta to be a good little Victor?” At his silence, I falter. “Oh.” That’s _exactly_ what he intends.

 

“I assured my advisors that you wouldn’t be difficult to convince, Miss Everdeen.” He stands up, brushing dust off of his neatly creased trousers. “I told them that a girl who has worked so hard for so many years to survive wouldn’t throw it all away.” I stare at him with wide eyes and he shakes his head, gesturing for his escort to come closer. “Was I wrong?”

 

. . .

 

Dawn has barely broken when I race from my house to Victors’ Village, my lungs burning as I breathe in the freezing air. I fly past the miners heading into the heart of the Seam, darting through the town square.

 

Peeta’s house looms large and daunting in the early light of morning, casting a long shadow that reaches almost to the archway that welcomes me in. My heart almost literally aches as I look at it; my eyes find his window, cracked open to the frigid winter air. I wonder if he is awake, if he slept at all, if he’s thinking of me. I wonder if he knows the danger he’s in. I want to be in there with him, more than anything, huddled together under the blankets and facing the day together.

 

But first, there are things to do.

 

My hands tremble, buried deep inside the worn pockets of my coat, as I climb the steps to Haymitch’s front door. I try to knock quietly but in the still morning air it echoes. Uneasily, I glance back to Peeta’s window and then try the knob; to my surprise it is unlocked, and I let myself in. The  inside of his house is somehow even dirtier than the last time I was here, sharp with the smell of vomit and rancid food. I wander the first floor and find him asleep in the kitchen, slumped over in his chair clutching a knife, surrounded by empty liquor bottles.

 

I scowl to myself. Even in sleep, he is repulsive.

 

“Haymitch,” I hiss, finding a used wooden spoon on the counter and poking him at a safe distance. _“Haymitch.”_ He twitches slightly in his seat but doesn’t wake. I give a huff of irritation, grabbing a dirty glass off of the table and quickly filling it with water from the sink. After a moment’s hesitation I dump it on him from a safe distance; he bellows loudly, shaking off the water like a wet dog and swinging the knife wildly. He looks at me with murder in his eyes. “We need to talk,” I say shortly. And he must be able to see the terror in my eyes because he follows me with no protest, shrugging on a jacket and stumbling into his boots. We traipse through the snow in silence, shivering quietly.

 

“You look like you’ve seen a demon, sweetheart,” he says gruffly once we’ve passed the delicate arch.

 

“Worse,” I tell him grimly, crossing my arms and hugging myself tightly. He waves his hand expectantly, gesturing for me to speak; his expression turns steadily stonier with every word that spills from my mouth. He curses when I finish recounting Snow’s final words.

 

“What should we do?” I ask desperately, ringing my hands together. “I never meant for any of this to happen, Haymitch, I never meant to make things worse for him—”

 

He scowls. “No one ever means to make things worse, girl, it’s just how things happen.”

 

“Tell me how to make it stop,” I plead. I hate the way I sound so desperate, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

 

“This doesn’t _stop_ , Katniss,” Haymitch scoffs. “He’s barely even been a Victor six months, you think this is the worst it’s gonna get?” I can feel my hands begin to shake at the pained fury in his voice. “Things can — things can get so much worse.” His voice breaks, and for the first time I wonder why he too lives all alone in his fancy house in Victors’ Village. He turns away for a long moment, looking out over snow blanketing the district. When he turns back around, his face is once again expressionless.

 

“So what do we do?”

 

Haymitch shrugs. “We protect him. Keep him from doing anything stupid. Keep _you_ from doing anything stupid,” he says accusingly, shaking his fist at me. “Pretend everything’s okay, let the world watch you live happily ever after.” He lets out a derisive snort. “The end.”

 

I swallow hard, shaken by his hopelessness. “What do we tell him?”

 

He hesitates. “For now...nothing specific.” I frown, and he crooks an eyebrow at me. “If he’s ‘too rebellious’ now, what do you think he’ll do when he finds out you’ve been threatened. Love is irrational,” he sneers, “and the boy has got it bad. I’ll just get Effie to write ‘im up some notes, tell him to stick to the scripts. That should take care of it. And all you have to do is hug him goodbye. Think you can handle that, sweetheart?”

 

I can’t help but bristle at his callousness. “I can handle it,” I promise tersely. I give him one last glare and he rolls his eyes, a dismissal if I ever saw one. And as I walk away, back through the snow and to Peeta’s house, I promise myself I will never, ever let him become a man like Haymitch. I will never let him lose enough to be so empty. No matter what the cost.

 

. . .

 

When I slip in the front door the house is still dark save for the soft light that filters in through the windows. The first floor is abandoned and cold; I pad softly up the stairs and creep in to his room silently, not wanting to wake him up from his last chance at peace. There is no need, though — Peeta’s blue eyes are wide open and staring at the ceiling. He rolls over, propping his head up and smiling in surprise.

 

“You’re here,” he whispers, although there is no one to wake. No matter how many times I see him, it always startles me how beautiful he is. His smile widens as I shrug and I feel it resonate deep within me.

 

“I told you I would be,” I remind him, toeing off my shoes and slipping in beside him under the covers. He immediately wraps his arms around me, and his warmth feels uncomfortably like home.

 

“You’re early is all,” he says, resting his cheek against my hair and tangling his fingers in my braid, snuggling me closer to him. I pull out of his arms.

 

“Well if you want me to leave—” I tease, beginning to roll away. He laughs, tugging me back and rolling me under him. His warm hand is splayed on my waist as he hovers over me, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter.

 

“Don’t you dare,” he warns. And then his bright blue eyes lock on mine and we aren’t laughing anymore; the only warning I have is the way his fingers twitch against my side and then he is kissing me in a way that is completely new. It will consume me if I let it and for the first time I _want_ to. His leg moves between mine, pressing hard against me and my entire body shakes against him, an embarrassingly loud moan slipping out. Instead of teasing me like he usual does he lets out a groan of his own, blazing kisses down the slope of my neck. I feel his tongue against my skin and although it is odd it’s also thrilling.

 

I don’t know how long we stay wrapped together so urgently, but when we finally break away it is only because there is only one other option and it is something I’m certain I’m not ready for. Although I can’t deny I’m readier than I’ve ever been, my entire body thrumming with a curiosity that I never wanted to know. The sun has risen steadily, and a glance at his bedside clock shows that his entourage will be here soon.

  
“My prep team would eat you alive if they found us like this,” Peeta muses, smoothing down my hair. I love listening to his breathlessness, knowing that I caused that. “They can’t wait to meet you,” he teases.

 

“I know it’s going to be the highlight of _my_ morning,” I tell him dryly, and he looks affronted.

 

“Are you kidding me, Everdeen? Those were my best moves!”

  
I sit up and stretch, conscious of the way his eyes are always trained on me. “Those were your best moves?” I tsk, shaking my head playfully. “We’ll have to work on those when you get back.” It’s meant as a joke but his face falls; the lightness we’ve built up fades away into something more tense, and we both climb out of bed without another word. He starts to make the bed silently and I can’t help but feel guilty.

 

I walk around to his side of the bed and wrap my arms around him, resting my cheek between his shoulder blades. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton. “I mean it,” I promise, squeezing him. “We’ll practice till it’s perfect.”

  
He finally smiles again, turning around in my arms and dropping a soft kiss on my lips. “It could take hours,” he warns.

 

“Days, even,” I smile, tipping up on my toes to kiss him some more.

  
He brushes his nose against mine, our foreheads pressed together. “Such dedication,” he says. We stay that way for a long moment, his eyes blinking slowly. I try to sear the image of him like this on my brain; I will need it to last me the two weeks he’ll be gone.

  
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” I blurt out suddenly. The corners of his eyes crinkle in confusion and I feel myself flush, remembering Haymitch’s warning. “Just — you know. Come back to me in one piece. Do whatever Haymitch says and just come back to me.”

 

He scoffs lightly, resting his hands on the small of my back. “As if I could stay away.”

 

“I’m serious,” I insist, and his expression softens when he sees me frown.

 

“I am too,” he assures me. “I’ll always come back to you.”

 

I bury these words deep inside of me, playing them on a loop inside of my head. When his prep team arrives, gushing over me like I’m an ill-groomed pet. When I’m ushered into the living room to wait for hours as they transform him into someone far too beautiful for me, someone I barely recognize. _I’ll always come back to you. I’ll always come back to you._

 

And then we are in his foyer, shiny Capitol cameras waiting for him, only him, just outside the door. His arms wrapped tightly around me despite Effie Trinket’s protests. He doesn’t kiss me, but I feel the promise in his stare.

 

“Be careful,” I whisper into his ear as we embrace. If he can hear the worry in my voice he doesn’t show it.

 

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he assures me quietly. But when he lets go it feels just like the train station so many months ago, being wrenched from my arms and into a dangerous game that I cannot save him from.

  
I can only hope he manages to win again.

  
. . .

  
. . .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickly wrapping up the plot arch and moving on to the next one. I hope you're ready, big, big, big things are ahead! Find me on tumblr: swishywillow.


	17. Chapter 17

The first night he is gone, I dream of eating apple fritters on his back porch, our fingers twined together in a way that would probably embarrass me if anyone were to see. This dependency is startling in real life, but in dreams it is a sweet comfort. He kisses me, lips sticky; I laugh softly against his mouth, feeling the way his smile curves so beautifully against my skin.

 

"Stay with me," I plead, so simple. Peeta smiles, as sweet as in person, and without even hearing it I know the answer —  _always._

 

I wake up feeling empty, my stomach pinching painfully and my thought miles away, hurtling down the railroad tracks. I can't help but wonder if he managed to get any sleep.

 

. . .

 

Madge makes good on her promise to try to distract me with piano lessons. I'm dreadful at it though; my fingers, so adept at killing and skinning, do a terrible job at finding the right notes. We end up spending hours sharing the piano bench, Madge playing beautifully and trying to not to laugh at my ineptness.

 

Ever the politician's daughter, she skillfully avoids any mention of Peeta. Instead, she asks me to help tend her garden, work on homework, anything she thinks will take my mind off of things. Most days Prim comes with us, walking carefully around the Mayor's pristine home. It is nothing like Peeta's home, warm because of his very presence and filled with the aroma of fresh bread. Instead, it is cool and mostly white. Madge explains it's mostly for show, a way to impress the myriad of Capitol vistors who stream through her house at least once a year. It seems like a terribly uncomfortable way to live.

 

Despite the way we avoid the topic like an illness, each evening we walk to the square together. Somedays my mother joins us but most days it is the three of us. They make sure to stand on each side of me, arms close to mine. Prim holds my hand tightly every night, transfixed on Peeta's handsome face on screen. I think they both sense my uneasiness, although it is impossible to explain why. She has made no mention of the way I abruptly stopped going into the woods after Snow's visit.

 

Each night, though, the tension in my shoulders seems to release a bit more — Peeta has performed beautifully in each district. He does not always read the white note cards he holds, but his speeches are wonderful, heartfelt and golden. It's impossible to miss the way the Capitol crowds, an ever present presence thanks to the livestream commentary during each stop on the Tour, fall deeper in love with him. I can hardly blame them, though.

 

The two weeks pass quickly, a blur of staring at my desk in school, soft songs played by Madge, Peeta dressed in handsome outfits and shaking hands with other Victors. I catch Farl's eye on the night he is in Seven; he stands with his family, each of them beaming up at the screen. Even Mrs. Mellark has the grace to look pleased at her son's popularity, although the sight of her smile makes something roil in my gut.

 

On the night before his return, I find myself actually smiling. Prim soaks up my good mood; for the first time since the Tour started she leaves me, standing somewhere in the crowd with Rory Hawthorne, turning a delicate pink when she catches me eyeing their clasped hands. Gale gives me a bewildered look, and the easiness of the moment warms my heart. I haven't yet found a way to tell Gale I can't make it back into the woods and that he shouldn't either. And honestly, with the way the Tour is wrapping up so successfully, I'm not sure I'll need to. Haven't I done everything Snow has asked? Hasn't Peeta been a dutiful Victor, his sweet, earnest words empty of any sort of rebellion?

 

The anthem plays, the large screen on prominent display lighting up, and we are allowed a blinding glimpse into the Capitol — Peeta shines in the spotlight, his smile broad and his stance relaxed; he leans forward on his knees as he talks to Caesar, his white teeth gleaming as they discuss the Tour.

 

"Seeing the districts was amazing. Four was beautiful, it was probably my favorite stop. I loved seeing the ocean for the first time," he says easily, his blue eyes connecting with the camera. For a moment it is like he is right beside me, looking at me again. "But it's definitely exciting to be back in the Capitol."

 

Caesar laughs. "And we're certainly excited to have you back here, aren't we?" The studio audience roars with approval, and it's easy to see that the crowd is dominated by glittering women with strange clothes and gleaming eyes who simply can't take their eyes off the newest Victor. "A little birdy informed me you've been given an official offer to extend your time here. What do you say, Peeta, are you going to stay among us for a bit longer?"

 

I feel my spine turn to steel. Around me, the district shifts uneasily, their happiness audibly turning to something else. I feel hundreds of eyes dart in my direction, but my body has been turned to stone — I can't look anywhere but at the screen, into the bright blue eyes I've been missing so desperately. Just like everyone else, I'm left hanging on his words.

 

"Well," he says slowly, eyes darting somewhere off camera. "It's certainly a generous offer, Caesar." The women in the crowd catcall their satisfaction, and he has the decency to blush. Something like lead forms in the pit of my stomach.  _No, no, no_. "There are a few things to consider, but I promise you'll be the first to know." When he winks, Caesar preens teasingly; I feel sick to my stomach. Madge takes a firm hold of my arm.

 

"Don't," she warns lowly out of the corner of her mouth. She must see the way my spine has stiffened, like a wild animal backed into a corner. "Not here." She takes hold of my elbow, squeezing me tightly until the interview ends, keeping me grounded. I watch Peeta's mouth move, but I don't hear the words.

 

I'm too distracted by the view on screen to pay attention to my surroundings; although the interview is over the coverage continues, showing us glimpses of the crowd screaming its enthusiasm. Madge bends down and whispers something to Prim who has walked back over, and she nods and squeezes my hand.

 

"I'm going home with Rory," she tells me quietly. I follow her gaze over to where the Hawthornes stand once again; Gale meets my eye and flashes me a grimace that I suppose should pass for a sympathetic smile. His eyes dart to Madge behind me, and the corner of his mouth twitches strangely. She tugs my arm, ignoring the power of his stare.

 

"Quickly," she mutters. I follow her, dazed and bewildered. We dart through the crowd, although it isn't hard — everyone who sees me moves quickly out of my way, as if there is something contagious clinging to my skin that they want no part of. We clear the square quickly, the Peacekeepers mercifully ignoring our presence now that the mandatory viewing is over. And still, even though we are alone, she pulls me relentlessly down the dusty path, not stopping until her large white house looms in front of us.

 

"You'll have to be quiet," she tells me softly, padding up the porch stairs with a surprisingly quiet tread. For the first time all night I resist, wrenching my arm out of her grasp.

 

"What are we doing?" I ask, all too aware of the way my voice cracks. She shushes me again, gesturing for me to take off my dirty boots.

 

"We're going to get some answers." Her voice is so serious, blue eyes shining determinedly; I can't help but allow her to pull me along again, up a set of richly carpeted stairs and into a very official looking room.

 

"I don't think we're supposed to be in here," I whisper. A sturdy mahogany desk gleams in the soft light, papers neatly stacked here and there. She leads me to a plush chair, pushing me into the seat.

 

"Daddy wouldn't mind," she reassures me, picking up a black phone and punching in a series of numbers that I'm too numb to catch. "Probably."

 

I scowl at her. "Then why are we sneaking around?"

 

Madge blanches. "My mom is sleeping. She just — it needs to be quiet. Now stop talking." She presses the phone to her ear, listening to something intently. It baffles me that less than a year ago I barely considered her an acquaintance.

 

I stare at a black pen, etched with gold; it is worth more than my house, probably. I'm suddenly grateful Gale isn't here to see this. As if that's what I should be concerned about right now. My breath expands in my chest until it is tight, too tight, and I feel myself gasping for air. I clutch the arms of the chair, my sweaty hands slicking along the fabric. Madge eyes me nervously, her soft words disappearing.

 

"Just put Peeta on," she instructs firmly. " _Now_."

 

She presses the phone against my ear but I can't even move to hold it. I hear a crackle, the sound of someone grumbling in the background, and then a soft voice, so familiar, pierces the silence. "Hello?"

 

I let out a choked sound, finally reaching up to claw at the phone. Madge drops it hastily and backs away. I'm barely even aware of the door shutting quietly behind her. A loud, embarrassing sob wracks my body and Peeta speaks again.

 

"Hello? Katniss?" He sounds so urgent, so confused and concerned and  _far away_. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down.

 

"Peeta," I croak. "I — I saw the interview."

 

I hear him sigh. "Oh, Katniss," he says softly. His voice is weary, and my gut clenches guiltily. I'm such a burden, it seems.

 

I swallow hard, leaning forward and pressing my head against the cool wood of the desk. Someone will have to clean up my filth later. "Is it true?"

 

I can hear his hesitation. "Well—"

 

"You promised," I cry. "I made you promise to be careful and you  _promised_! You said you'd come back!"

 

"I will come back," he assures me. He sounds cautious, as if speaking to a wild animal. "You just don't really understand the predicament I'm in."

 

I scoff. "Of course I understand. Haymitch told me—" I choke again, and he makes a strange sound in my silence.

 

"Haymitch told you what?" His voice is harder than it was just seconds ago and I realize my mistake.

 

"Don't be mad," I beg. "I just, I know things are tricky. That's why I told you to be careful, Peeta, so this—"

 

"I  _am_  being careful," he insists, an edge of anger to his voice. "Katniss if you—" He swears under his breath; when he speaks again it is gentle. "I don't want to stay away, you have to know that. I can't even sleep without you near, Katniss. That's why—"

 

"Then come back," I insist. "Come back  _now_."

 

He sighs. "If I do everything I'm supposed to do maybe it won't be too much longer."

 

I choke. "Everything you're supposed to do? What does that even mean?"

 

"Just a couple of odds and ends," he promises evasively. "Nothing too bad."

 

"You can't do this." I can hear the panic in my tone and I flush, even alone in the Mayor's office. It seems strange to think that the shrillness of my voice is traveling to the Capitol, an illusion of closeness to the boy who has never felt so far away. "I need you to be here!"

 

Peeta's breathing hitches, a sound that makes my chest ache. "Katniss, you have to understand—" He pauses for just a moment, but in the silence I hear a strange click.

 

I shake the phone in frustration, certain he's hung up. "Peeta? Are you still there?"

 

When he speaks again, his voice is different; smoother, softer somehow, belonging to someone I feel like I don't know at all. "I'm still here. I miss you too, sweetheart, but I have to go. Effie is waiting. Maybe I'll get to see you soon."

 

 _Sweetheart?_ "Peeta—" But another, louder, click on the line tells me that he is gone. There is a gaping silence, big enough to fill the space where my heart was just moments ago. I press the phone to my ear anyway, unwilling to let the connection go.

 

And then, even though he is long gone, there is another, softer click. I drop the phone hastily as if it has scorched my ear.

 

I have no idea what any of this means anymore.

 

. . .

 

Silent days pass, the airwaves empty of any news. I miss several days of school; one day I sneak out of my house at dawn and make my way to Peeta's house. I curl up in his bed and stare out of his window for hours, lamenting the fact that his sheets already don't smell like him. The next day I slip into the woods for the first time since Snow's visit, climbing a tree as high as I can go, until the branches are slim and slippery and I sway in the winter wind.

 

I almost hope Snow knows. This rebellion of mine. I did everything,  _we_  did everything, and still Peeta is gone. I try not to think too hard about what is doing right now.

 

A week goes by like this — fumbling through the days without feeling, functioning only when I have to. And then one night Prim crawls into bed with me, wrapping her arms around me and hugging me so tightly that her bony chin digs into my shoulder. We cry together for what seems like hours.

 

I get up before dawn the next morning, slipping out of the door and heading into the woods. I hunt, shooting a lone, skinny fox that is out on such a cold morning before making my way down Gale's snare line. As I trudge through the hard, slippery snow, I remember all of the reasons I never wanted to fall in love.

 

. . .

 

A month crawls by, January transitioning into an equally harsh February. Peeta doesn't call, there is no news. It would almost seem better this way, if it weren't for the terrible nightmares that have started. Prim is careful not to mention it, my mother is as oblivious as ever. Whispers follow me around at school relentless but Madge doggedly helps me ignore them. We spend more time together than ever, and more than one mild afternoon she convinces me to take her into the woods.

 

My Saturday mornings with Gale resume and he faithfully pretends that Peeta ever even existed, much less came between our friendship. Things are still stilted between us sometimes, when we crouch low in the bushes together, thighs touching. He is the one who hastily backs away every time; I am grateful, although sometimes I think kissing him would be a welcome distraction.

 

Peeta doesn't call. Ever. I do catch two glimpses of him on TV, though, on the rare occasions we turn it on when the power is working in our part of the Seam. Each time he is beaming at someone, dressed so handsomely, mingling with rich Capitolites who probably bet on his life not too long ago.

 

And then one Saturday morning there is an impatient rap on my door. Gale is with me, divvying up the meager yield from our trip to the woods. I open the door cautiously and Madge sweeps in.

 

"Tomorrow afternoon," she pants. It is clear that she ran here, and Gale eyes her as if she is a strange animal he has never seen before. "A train from the Capitol is coming. Tomorrow afternoon."

 

. . .

 

Despite my better judgment, I hope. And I dream that night of the morning he left, the way he kissed me as if he would devour me, and the sheer  _want_  I've been ignoring for almost two months now flames back up inside of me.

 

My mother braids my hair and I slip into my nicest pants, remembering all the times Peeta ran his hands over the worn fabric and trying not to squirm.  _He might not be here_ , I try to remind myself.

 

I wait at the station for hours, shivering in my threadbare coat. And when the train approaches, I can't help it — I step forward eagerly, hands clasped, heart in my throat.

 

_I'll always come back to you._

 

When Haymitch steps off the train alone, something inside of me crumbles; surely he sees it on my face because his voice is empty of the disdain he so often sends my way.

 

"Sweetheart," he greets. I don't even have it in me to scowl, willing myself to focus on the rich leather of his shoes. I startle when he thrusts something close to my face — a letter, on thick envelope with my name written in a loopy script. I stare at it, disgusted, and Haymitch shifts uneasily.

 

"He uh, wrote you a letter. Made me promise to give it to you." I glare at him and he shrugs, waving it in my face until I snatch it from him. I make sure he sees the way I crumple it in my fist.

 

"There's another train coming in two weeks," he says finally, his words uncharacteristically soft. "They might send him home on it."

 

I look at him sharply, but he says nothing else. "Two weeks?"

 

He shrugs. "If you're lucky."

 

I can't help but scoff. I'm anything but lucky.

 

. . .

 

Two weeks go by; Peeta doesn't return. And I promise myself — never again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump next chapter. Hopefully you're all still with me despite the delays! Come find me on tumblr: swishywillow.


	18. INTERLUDE: The Quarter Quell Announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portions of the text this chapter are borrowed from Catching Fire and I do not own them. A full chapter should be following soon! Thanks for making these two years amazing :)

**INTERLUDE: The Quarter Quell Announcement**

 

One evening, late in the spring, there is a mandatory viewing. All at once, every television in all of Panem turns on without fanfare. The Capitol seal fills the screen for a few long, silent seconds — and then abruptly the screen is filled with strangely colored faces; a camera panning over an excited Capitol crowd, bejeweled tattoos and bright, bizarre hairstyles gleaming in the bright lights. The anthem plays and a hush falls over the crowd.

 

President Snow stands spotlighted on stage, a rose neatly pinned to the lapel of his rich suit. He smiles magnanimously at the camera, indulging for a moment the cheers of the crowd. A small boy stands beside him, dressed in a white suit and holding a simple wooden box. The president holds his hands up and almost immediately the crowd falls silent.

 

Pictures flash on screen — pictures of war and death, pictures of rebellion. He speaks of the Dark Days, from which the Hunger Games were born. His voice is solemn and quiet, his words carrying a heavy weight.

 

"As you all know, this year's Games will mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Capitol's triumph over the rebels. And so we will celebrate with a Quarter Quell, to remind the districts that although the rebellion is long over, the debt will never be repaid." He looks squarely into the camera, his smile grim.

 

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it. On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes. And now," he says gravelly, "We honor our third Quarter Quell." The boy in white steps forward, holding the box open to reveal a row of neat, slightly yellowing envelopes. President Snow reaches forward to pull out an envelope, clearly marked with a 75.

 

The Capitol crowd murmurs expectantly, but it is quiet in Panem. He opens it without flourish, running his finger under the flap. From it he pulls out a small, innocuous piece of paper. The crowd falls silent once more.

 

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder that it was women who gave birth to and raised the rebels, each district will be represented by two females." The Capitol crowd erupts, but President Snow pays no heed. Instead, his cold blue eyes look directly into the camera once more, and he smiles. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

 

In the Seam of District 12, the electricity flickers off once more.


	19. Chapter 19

_Even from a distance I can see Prim trembling, her skinny knees knocking together as she tries to stand still. Effie Trinket, dressed this year in the soft colors of sunsets I used to watch with Peeta, beams on the stage; long fingernails dig into the glass reaping bowl--just one this year, filled with the names of little girls who are not ready to die._

 

_"What an exciting day," she titters. She selects a name, a life, and pulls it out agonizingly slow. And without even unfolding it, her eyes lock on my sister._

 

_"Primrose Everdeen!"_

 

. . .

 

With a start I sit up, a cold sweat drenching my worn sleep shirt. Prim has kicked off the covers in the heat of the early morning, her face wrinkled with the frown of one who is having an unpleasant dream. I brush back the hair from her face guiltily; last year she sought the comfort of my mother on reaping today, but she must have thought my need was greater. And although it didn't stop the nightmares, it is a sweet relief to see her face so close, to know that for the moment at least, my little duck is still safe.

 

Outside of our dirty window dawn has broken; although the day is overcast, the heat from yesterday lingers. A record breaking scorcher, Sae told me at the Hob, although I don't know who in this district has time to track something so trivial as the temperature.

 

This time last year I was a mile out of the district, eating fresh bread and berries with Gale. We had decided it was too dangerous this time; there was more attention on our district this year, more camera crews than ever pouring into the district to film a possible successor, as if the odds could possibly be in our favor again. The fences have been on more than usual lately, and the danger of getting caught out there and not making it back for the reaping is too great. My fingers itch for my bow, longing for something of my father’s to hold near. I wish I was anywhere but here, somewhere deep in the mountains or hidden in the thick, wooded valley that is so close to our district and yet a lifetime away.

 

Even with my desperation to escape, I am reluctant to pull myself out of bed, careful not to disturb Prim. One of us at least should take comfort in sleep.

 

My mother is already in the kitchen, staring out the windows to the dusty road. The morning is already warm and the windows have been pushed open, allowing a faint breeze to blow through. She looks up when she hears my soft footsteps. She doesn’t smile, just pushes a cup of tea in my direction. It is still early but the road is empty of children playing or miners heavily making their way to work. Everyone is at home, holding their daughters close and praying for another year.

 

“I pulled out my dress for you. The one from last year.” She tucks a lock of graying blonde hair behind her ear, looking anxious. I try to smile which seems to encourage her; she walks around behind me, toying with my thick braid. “And I can fix your hair again? If you’d like.” We stay like that, her gentle fingers running through my dark hair, so unlike her own. I wonder if she, like me, is thinking of my father, of Prim’s name in the bowl two times this year, of the danger of losing someone we love again. When Prim comes out almost an hour later she beams sleepily at the sight of us.

 

We spend the rest of the morning together, bathing and getting ready, telling ourselves we will be back together in this room soon. We have to be. There is no other way.

 

. . .

 

Prim stands across the square, surrounded by the other thirteen year old girls. She catches my eye and gives me a watery smile; even with such distance between us I can see the way her bottom lip trembles.

 

Beside me, Madge squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “Two slips,” she says, voice quiet. And while it eases my conscience about Prim, I can’t help thinking about my own name, written in neat, uniform writing on tiny squares and tossed inside the large glass bowl. Twenty-four times this year.

 

And then the door of the Justice Building swings open and the Mayor comes out, accompanied by a pair of bright blue eyes that I studiously ignore.

 

It’s the first time I’ve seen Peeta in five months. My stomach cramps just looking at him and I turn away. Beside me, Madge sighs. I ignore them both, looking back at the crowd around me.

 

It is strange, to be in such a small pool for the reaping with such a large crowd of witnesses. Our numbers are normally doubled but this year the boys stand on the sidelines, twelve year olds tucked under the arms of their mothers. I see Gale standing with his family, his arm on Rory’s shoulder protectively and when our eyes meet he flushes, something akin to guilt written on his face. As if it is his fault we are more at risk than ever before.

 

As if we do not know who is really to blame.

 

The mayor steps to the podium, his speech the same as it is every year. Madge is frozen beside me until the video begins to play, giving me a tight lipped smile when I glance her way.

 

Effie Trinket, this year bespectacled in dazzling oranges, totters on stage. She coos about the gracious Capitol, gushing about our victors with tearful, fond looks in Peeta’s direction. It is sickening and I glare at the ground, my fingers fisting my mother’s carefully ironed dress.

 

I remember Peeta’s mildly affectionate words concerning Effie. “She’s well meaning,” he had mumbled into my hair one afternoon shortly before the Victory Tour after she had called and spoken to him for well over an hour. “She’s really excited and she just wants everything to go well.” He slid back onto his sofa with my, wrapping his strong arms around me. I remember falling to sleep slowly, waking up far later in the afternoon than I had ever intended and pulling out of his hold reluctantly.

 

The memory makes me scowl; I look up and my breath catches somewhere in my throat. Like last year, his bright blue eyes are trained on me. And despite everything that has happened us, I still have no idea what he’s thinking. He looks good,  _so good_ , so sturdy and so Peeta, but there is something sorrowful in the lines of his face and I can’t look away—

 

“Ladies first!” Effie Trinket titters at her own joke and the crowd murmurs, the angriest response we can express without repercussion. There is only one bowl today, standing prominently in the middle of the stage. She takes her time, walking over and hovering her hand at the rim, fingers curled in anticipation of what’s to come. She searches for the right one and finally digs it out, a life gripped between her well-manicured nails. She strides back to the microphone and I look back at Prim who is clutching her hands in desperation. I can’t help but wonder how lucky we will be this year.

 

I look back to Effie as she beams at the crowd, determined to make the best of our unresponsiveness. Her mouth opens and a name comes out, ringing in my ears and turning my chest hollow. And it can’t be real, it’s  _impossible_ , but the crowd parts around us and Madge grabs my hand, clutching it so tightly I think it might break.

 

_No_.

 

“Madge Undersee,” Effie repeats, peering out at the crowd. I can feel her shaking; she pulls out of my grasp and walks toward the platform, her long blonde hair swaying with her trembling steps. I hear the Mayor sob quietly and my heart wrenches. By the time she makes it on stage beside the district escort her face is blank, an art she perfected sitting beside me at lunch for years.

 

“I’ll bet my buttons you’re the mayor’s girl, aren’t you?” Effie asks brightly, faltering only a little at Madge’s cold look. The crowd mutters around me and when she calls for applause we are silent. Peeta looks stricken on stage and my heart sinks further; I look for Gale in the crowd but he doesn’t see me, his eyes unwavering from Madge’s frowning figure.

 

Effie flounders for a moment before returning to the bowl and plunging her hand back in. This time she picks the first name she comes to, plucking it right off the top. Eager to gain control, she strides back to the podium and unfolds the paper in her hands quickly. “Katniss Everdeen,” she rattles out. And then she double takes.

 

Somewhere in the crowd, Prim screams, lunging in my direction until the girls around her hold her back. I don’t look at Peeta. I don’t look at anything. The world around me turns to fog; I find myself suddenly on stage, Madge’s cool hand shaking mine, nowhere near as reassuring as it was just ten minutes ago.  I look out in the crowd and see my sister, doubled over as if in physical pain. She’s safe, though, unlike me. It’s better this way.

 

I brush by Peeta on the way into the Justice building, close enough to reach out for him. I don’t.

 

. . .

 

The first person that rushes in is Prim, tears streaming down her face. My mother walks in behind her, watching sadly as she wraps her arms around me, her skinny frame trembling with the force of her sobs. The hollowness inside my fills up a little with the weight of her, the smell of the soap we shared this morning still fresh in her hair.

 

My mother walks over to us, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and sinking into our embrace. When I look at her, her face is wet too.  We share a look, so many words running through my head. She gives me a watery, brave smile and I know without asking that she will not disappear. Prim will be safe.

 

“You have to win,” Prim cries, clinging to me. I shush her but she pulls away, putting her hands on my shoulder and shaking me hard. “You have to! Promise me!”

 

“I promise.” I think of Madge in the next room and my stomach churns.

 

“Peeta will help you,” she adds hopefully.

 

I hesitate, looking into her clear blue eyes that look so much like my mother’s. I want to be anywhere but here. “Peeta will help me,” I agree. Before she can speak again I wrap her back up in my arms, my mother brushing back loose strands of hair from my face. We stay like that until the Peacekeeps summon them out. Prim walks backwards as long as she can, her blue eyes on me the whole way, reminding me of my promise.

 

The door opens a minute later and Farl walks in, smiling grimly at my surprise. Before I can protest he gathers me in his arms, crushing me against his chest. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him — now that he’s out of school and I’ve been avoiding the bakery since Peeta went away, it’s been several months. It was easy to forget about the somewhat reluctant friendship we’d struck up. He feels like Peeta though, solid and familiar, and if his shirt is a little damp when I move away he pretends not to notice. He shoves a bag of cookies in my hand.

 

“Dad made these for — you, I guess,” he says, his voice quiet. I close my eyes, remembering the same bag clutched in Peeta’s hands a year ago. A lifetime ago. Farl studies me with bright blue eyes, frowning. “I know you’re mad at him,” he whispers, “but he still loves you. I know this isn’t his fault, you have to know that too. Let him help you.”

 

I scoff. “There’s nothing he can do.”

 

“He won just last year,” he points out reasonably. “He knows a thing or two.” At my grimace he moves closer, gripping my wrists tighter than necessary. “Don’t be get all strong and stupid, Katniss. Let him help you. ‘Cause if you  _do_  die—”

 

The door swings open again and he shrugs, walking out without another word. I’m left alone for a few minutes, the cookies crumbling in my grasp, and then someone else comes in.

 

I’m in Gale’s arms before the door even closes. He looks uncharacteristically distraught and presses me close.

 

“Catnip,” he begins hoarsely, but I shake my head before he can go on.

 

“Promise me.”

 

He startles. “I’ll take care of them. No matter what. Until you come back.”

 

I step away from him, wringing my hands. “Gale—“

 

“You can win, Catnip. You already know how to shoot—”

 

“Animals.”

 

He shakes his head. “It’s just like hunting,” he insists.

 

Bile creeps up my throat at his words. “What about Madge?” I ask, desperate. He opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t say anything. And he must see the fear on my face because he stays quiet, just holds me close until our time is up. When the door opens he squeezes me one last time. “Mellark will help you,” he says lowly, his mouth close to my ear. He says the words as if they burn his throat.

 

I spend the rest of the time by myself, smoothing my hands over the soft fabric of the couch, thinking of the long line of friends Peeta had a year ago. Peeta won’t help me, I decide. I won’t let him.

 

. . .

 

If the cameras are looking for a spectacle they won’t find it here. Madge nods at me politely as we slide into the car, doing nothing else to indicate our friendship. She looks out the window, almost bored, and I try to mimic her. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a car and it makes me queasy. I spend the few minutes to the train station staring out the window and up at the sky, blinking against the hot, bright light. I wish it was sunset, I wish that I could see the way it turns everything hazy and lovely, and the coal dust is hard to see and everything looks the same. I never noticed until Peeta pointed it out to me, just how pretty a sunset is. I wonder if I’ll ever see it here again.

 

The car jerks to a stop; Madge glides out effortlessly as if she’s been in and out of cars her whole life and I stumble out after her, the both of us following Effie through the path the Peacekeepers have made in the crowd. She ushers us onto the train, her hand pushing me lightly as I hesitate on the first step.

 

“Up, up, up!” she says brightly, and she makes us turn in the doorway and pose for pictures, the cameras that have followed us the whole way flashing brightly. Madge’s arm brushes against mine and when I look over at her she cuts her eyes toward the camera. After a few agonizing moments of this the door mercifully shuts, leaving us in a dim sort of quiet.

 

The train starts moving at once and I sway in my spot, feeling breathless from the speed of it. Madge grabs my elbow to steady me. Effie allows us a moment of silence before walking deeper onto the train, beckoning for us to follow her. The tribute train is fancier than anything I’ve ever seen, even after long hours spent with Madge at the mayor’s house; everything is shiny and paneled and lit up, and when Effie leads us to our rooms they are bigger than any room I’ve ever been in. She shows us the attached dressing rooms and private bathrooms, drawers full of clothes for us to wear and a bed large enough for my mother, Prim, and me and still have room to spare. She leaves us in one of the rooms, telling us whatever we want is ours and to be ready in an hour for supper.

 

We stand there for a moment, quiet in her absence, until Madge smiles awkwardly at me and backs away towards the door. “You can have this room,” she offers, already edging out of the door. I try to smile back but she doesn’t meet my eyes, and when the door swings shut I feel more alone than I have in ages.

 

I know that I should shower and change, make myself  _presentable_ , but I’m so exhausted that I collapse onto the bed, the fabric of my mother’s carefully preserved dress drab and worn against the rich covers on the bed. I lay face down, burying my head in a thick, downy pillow, wondering if it is possible to suffocate this way. Everything feels — like nothing, actually. It is too much, all at once, and I feel completely numb to it all. There is a gentle knock on the door and I startle, sitting up as it slides open.

 

Peeta stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame and looking at me with a careful look on his face, like I am something fragile and explosive that he doesn’t quite know how to handle. He opens his mouth as if to speak and I shake my head, falling back down and shutting my eyes, rolling on my side away from him and hoping he will go away. After a long moment the door closes and my shoulders sag in relief. I tense again seconds later when the bed dips on the other side.

 

And then he is there, so warm and close and real, and I can’t  _look_  at him, I can’t, but his hand settles on my waist and he pulls me flush against him, his breath warm on my neck. I shudder at the sensation and I feel him shake against me. And then suddenly I am crying, my whole body seizing with sobs that have been months coming. He doesn’t say anything, just grips my hand tightly with the hand that isn’t holding me close to him.

 

I can feel him crying too but I say nothing to comfort him, greedily taking in his presence. I’m so angry and having him here like this feels wrong but I’m too selfish to care, needing this small comfort as we speed further and further away from home, probably for my last time.

 

I must fall asleep because before I know it he is rolling away from me, my body cold at his sudden absence. I guess I groan or something because he reaches for me again, smoothing my hair back from my forehead, trailing his thumb down to trace my jaw.

 

“Almost time for dinner,” he whispers and I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, watching him carefully in my periphery. I’m glad I am not looking at him straight on because even indirectly, the look he is giving me makes me feel sick with something I don’t care to identify. “Effie will have a meltdown if she finds me in here.”

 

I shrug. “Then go.” I feel empty again.

 

Peeta hesitates. “Katniss—“

 

“Go,” I insist, scowling at him. I hear his heavy sigh and then he is gone, the door softly shutting behind him.

 

I stumble off the bed, wandering into the bathroom and flinching at my reflection, my eyes red and swollen from tears. I only have a handful of minutes left but I explore the shower anyway, switching it on with the press of a few buttons and stripping off my mother’s dress, crumpling it in the corner and standing under the spray. The warm water beats on my shoulders and I feel like I could stay there forever, trapped under a warm summer rain, but I reluctantly get out and rifle through the drawers. I pick out the plainest clothes I can find but they are still far thicker and more expensive than anything even the Merchant kids wore.

 

I slip on a dark green shirt and pants, just in time for Effie to tap on my door. I step out to find her fluttering in the hallway, Madge tugging uncomfortably at a shirt similar to mine. We share a look before following her into an unfamiliar area, a lavish dining compartment with gleaming wooden tables. Peeta is waiting at the table, the chair beside him empty. I ignore it, dropping into an open seat on the opposite side, as far away from him as I can get. Madge sits in the seat beside him, shooting me a knowing look that I choose to ignore.

 

“Where’s Haymitch?” Effie asks, sitting gracefully at the chair and looking around expectantly. Peeta snorts, disguising it as a cough when she looks at him disapprovingly.

 

“Probably napping,” he says dryly. Effie frowns at him.

 

“Don’t be so sassy, Peeta,” she admonishes, looking at us and rolling her eyes heavenward. “You’re setting a terrible example for the ladies!” She beams at us, placing her linen napkin in her lap and smoothing it down. I make the mistake of looking in his direction and find his clear blue eyes fixed on me. I look away quickly, just in time to see Madge frown and look down.

 

The supper comes in courses, rich food on heavy trays carried in by silent attendants. First a thick, creamy broccoli soup, followed by a roast duck and potatoes. Effie keeps reminding us not to fill ourselves too quickly, that there is more to come, but it is impossible for me to resist piling my plate high and devouring as much as I can.

 

Madge, on the other hand, takes small, neat bites off her half-empty plate, and Effie beams at her. I can tell how pleased she is to have such a lovely tribute, one so well-bred and prepared for such a meal. After her fourth or fifth comment on Madge’s impeccable manners I toss my fork aside, glaring at her and eating with my hands, careful not to look in Peeta’s direction again.

 

Haymitch bursts in sometime in the middle of dessert, a decadent strawberry shortcake with heavy cream, piled high with large strawberries that make even Madge’s eyes go wide. In his hands is a stout glass filled with an amber liquid, and when he swaggers over to the table and collapses into the only empty chair beside me I wrinkle my nose. He reeks.

 

Our escort levels him with a scalding glare, but Peeta looks concerned. Haymitch seems even more surly and drunk than usual, a feat I didn’t know could be accomplished even from the few times I had been forced into his presence. He sneers at us all, leaning onto the table and placing his elbow in a dish of the shortcake. Completely oblivious, he takes another sip of a drink.

 

“What a happy occasion,” he slurs, gesturing widely around the table. “We have the star crossed lovers, together again at last,” Haymitch chortles, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close until I elbow him sharply in the ribs. Peeta’s face burns with a poorly suppressed rage. “And of course, the obligatory Donner party.” He winks at Madge and she turns pale, visibly shaking as he tips his glass towards her. “Quite a family tradition, eh, girl?”

 

She looks horrified and for the first time since the reaping, tears spring to her eyes. I turn to him furiously, knocking the drink out of his hand. The crystal shatters on the paneled floor, much to Effie’s horror.

 

“Shut up,” I hiss. I don’t even know what he’s talking about but it’s clear from the pain on her face that it’s nothing she needs to hear about right now. We ignore Effie’s shriek of outrage, glaring at each other in mutual dislike. Then suddenly he guffaws, slapping me hard on the shoulder.

 

“Always did have spunk, didn’t you, Sweetheart?”

 

Madge stands up suddenly. “I’m going to go—” She gestures towards the door, smiling weakly before bolting. We’re left in an awkward silence, nothing but the sounds of Haymitch’s messy eating to fill the space.

 

We move to another compartment with a large screen; Effie leaves to fetch Madge and Haymitch is still in the dining cart, so when I sink down onto an overstuffed couch there is no one to block Peeta from sitting beside me. I know he feels me go stiff as a board at his proximity but he stays beside me resolutely, the soft skin of his arm brushing against mine in a way that makes the rich food in my belly churn.

 

The recap is a blur of insignificant faces. I’m far too distracted by Peeta’s warmth and Madge’s blotchy face to pay much attention. There are only a few who stand out to me — a striking pair of sisters from One, tall and dark skinned and deadly looking; a small, pale girl from Three, tears streaming from behind thick glasses; an angry, burly girl from Seven who scowls at the cameras beside her slight, terrified district partner. When they replay ours I can hear Prim’s scream in the crowd, and though I ignored Peeta so thoroughly at the actual event it is impossible to miss the genuine devastation that flickers on his face for a brief moment as the cameras mercilessly zoom in for a reaction shot. It only lasts for a second on screen but when I look at him from the corner of my eye, it is back in full force.

 

This time, it is my turn to excuse myself. I barricade myself in my room for the night, too weary to even search for clothes to sleep in. Instead I strip off my clothes and slip under the cool, soft sheets in my underwear, staring up at the ceiling that shakes almost imperceptibly at the train’s speed and willing myself not to cry.

 

About an hour later, the doorknob rattles. “Katniss, please.” It is Peeta, and he sounds desperate. “Please, let me in.” I find myself grateful that I remembered to lock it this time.

 

I roll over, sliding into the spot he took up this afternoon, pretending that I can still smell him on the pillow and listening to him shake the door again and again, his voice pleading. I can tell the moment he grows frustrated with me; there is a sharp pounding sound against the wall and a loud swear. Then muffled sobs that grow quieter as he walks away.

 

I do not fall asleep until it is almost dawn.

 

. . .

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was painful to write. I would really love to hear your thought, reactions, wails, etc. As always you can find me on tumblr: swishywillow.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mitchesbcray and arollercoasterthatonlygoesup for the prereading/near-constant feedback.
> 
> Implied sexual content.

The first thing I’m aware of is the knob jiggling and Effie Trinket’s insufferable voice muffled through the door. “Up, up, up!”

 

My eyes blink open, watering at the brightness of the sun streaming through the small window in my compartment. The world zooms by, an indistinct green blur.

 

She knocks again and I jolt, groaning and rolling over; as I bury my face in the pillow I hear the handle rattle once more. Effie’s voice is more irritated when she says a moment later, “We have a big, big, big day ahead of us, Katniss! Breakfast is in fifteen minutes!”

 

I slip out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, splashing warm water from the faucet onto my bleary face. My eyes look as hollow as my heart feels, gray shadows heavy underneath them. My hair is mostly the same as it was when my mother braided it a day, a lifetime ago. I smooth the flyaways that are rough from sleep and leave it, a piece of home I will carry with me into this day. The clothes from last night are still in front of my bedroom and I pull them back on, the cotton just as soft and unfamiliar as they were yesterday.

 

When I pad out of my room Madge’s door is already open, the room empty and cool. I find her already in the dining car, seated across from Effie and beside Peeta. Her eyes meet mine and then flutter away just as quickly, concentrating on the breakfast pastries and fruit piled high on her plate. Peeta glances at me warily before he frowns down at his own plate; my stomach sinks at the sight of him but I go ahead and load my plate with eggs and buttery biscuits, thickly cut bacon and sliced oranges. I take my place at the table, reluctantly across from Peeta. Haymitch wanders in a moment later, scowling at the whole lot of us and fixing himself a strong smelling drink.

 

Effie chatters along the whole time, either oblivious to or willfully ignoring the thick tension in the room. I tune her out, focusing on the table around me.

 

There is a steaming mug of hot brown liquid in front of me that I sniff suspiciously. Peeta catches my eye and the corner of his mouth tips up; he holds up a bun and dips it into a mug of his own, nodding at me to try it. I do; the drink is sweet and creamy, a rich chocolate I could have never even imagined. The bun melts in my mouth and I close my eyes in satisfaction; when they open back up I can feel Madge’s eyes on me, Peeta’s gaze still trained on me intently. I swallow hard, choking a bit on my mouthful. Effie pats my back affectionately and I try not to scowl.

 

Haymitch snorts. “As entertaining as this is,” he sneers, gesturing between us with his free hand, “We should probably talk.” Madge rolls her eyes, an uncharacteristically hard look on her face. Peeta shifts anxiously in his seat.

 

“About what?” I look between our two mentors who are clearly having a silent conversation with their eyes.

 

Peeta is the one who looks away first, leveling us both with a forced smile. “Well first things first, how do you two want to be trained?”

 

Madge and I look at each other, confused. “What do you mean?” She is frowning at him, her hands busy smoothing the napkin in her lap.

 

“We can train you together or separately,” Haymitch says with a shrug.

 

I can’t help but look to Peeta, hoping to get some kind of cue from him. “Why would we want to be trained separately?”

 

He hesitates. “Just, you know. If there are any talents or strategies that you have. That you wouldn’t want the other person to know of ahead of time.”

 

I can’t think of anything there is to hide from Madge, though. The whole district knows my skill, and I can’t think of any hidden talents of hers that she wouldn’t want me to know—

 

“Separately,” she says firmly before I can even finish my thought. A surprised sound escapes me but she doesn’t even look my way. Peeta looks worried, blue eyes darting in between us nervously, but Haymitch only nods.

 

“Alright, then. Blondie, you can take your little sweetheart over here—“

 

“No!” I glare at them all, my heart beating wildly. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming, it never even occurred to me that Madge would treat me like an enemy. Peeta looks undeniably hurt and Madge’s mouth is twisted unhappily. I ignore them both, scowling at Haymitch. “No. If we’re doing this, I want you.”

 

His smile is grim. “You really think that’s your best choice, Sweetheart?” I nod stiffly and he grins.

 

Peeta slams his fist down on the table. “Katniss, _no_.”

 

I stand up, pushing away from the table. “I’m done talking about this.” Before anyone can say anything else I storm out, darting down the hallway and back towards my room. I hear footsteps pounding behind me.

 

“Katniss.” Peeta grabs my arm, rougher than he’s ever been with me. When I look up at him he is glaring, clearly angry. I jerk out of his grip but he doesn’t relent; when we make it to my room he slides in front of my door, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks exhausted and irritated and so, so defeated. I cock my head to the side, trying to find a way past him.

 

"Move," I say curtly. His bright blue eyes narrow at me, his mouth set in thin line. He shifts on the balls of his feet, then squares his jaw.

 

"No."

 

“No?” I frown, confused. It is unlike Peeta to be so forceful, yet the look on his face clearly tells me he has no intention of backing down. His face hardens, turning around to open the door and stalking inside of my room. Against my better judgment, I follow, shutting the door behind me.

 

He paces in front of the bed, running his fingers through his wavy hair in frustration. When he looks back up into me it is like looking at a picture through a cracked frame.

 

“This is so unfair, Katniss. For you to just — shut me out like this.”

 

I scoff, crossing my arms and leaning against the door. “I’m shutting _you_ out, Peeta?”

 

The look he gives me is scorching. “Is that really what you’ve been imagining, Katniss? Do you really think that I wanted to be gone?” He speaks through gritted teeth, fury etched into the lines of his face. “That I _chose_ this? That everything that I did wasn’t—”

 

“All I know is you were gone.” I look away from him, feeling the same ache in my stomach that has been a constant presence since January every time I think of him. It is hard, seeing him and not being happy about it. Having him so close and making him so far away. It hurts my eyes to see him.

 

“To protect you!” he explodes. “Everything I did — everything was for you! To keep you safe, to keep you — to keep you _away_. Do you have any idea the things they threatened? The power they have?” His chest is heaving, devastation clear in his bright blue eyes.

I swallow hard. “I think I have an idea,” I say quietly. He looks stricken, stepping closer. He reaches out for me, slowly, like I am something rabid and dangerous. And then his hands are sliding against my arms, slowly moving up to cup my elbows, his thumbs smoothing circles against the skin he finds. I can feel him shaking; I’m not looking at his face, I _can’t_ , but when a tear lands on my shirt I know it is not my own.

 

“I know it was apparently useless.” I focus on the hollow of his throat, the way he swallows nervously. “I was gone for so long, doing terrible — doing things I can’t even talk about. Knowing you were waiting — or that you weren’t waiting, that you probably hated me. But it was worth it because I thought I was keeping you safe.” His voice cracks and I look up at him reluctantly. He is closer than I estimated, his nose almost brushing against mine.

 

“I don’t think any of us are safe,” I whisper. His lips turn up in a sad sort of smile and I find myself licking my own without thinking; his eyes darken in a familiar way that I haven’t let myself think about in too long.

 

“I will get you out of there or die trying.” He is so close to me now his lips brush against mine when he speaks.

 

“You need to worry about Madge,” I try to insist. It is hard not to just close my eyes and lean forward.

 

Peeta shakes his head, tipping his forehead down until it rests against my own. “That would be as good as killing her, Katniss. I can’t…I can only think about you. Don’t make me—”

 

I’m not sure who closes the distance between us but suddenly we are kissing, desperately, as if it will solve everything if we just keep going long enough. His mouth is warm and familiar, the taste of him almost enough to make me smile. He pushes me against the door, hands finding my hips and sliding up to trace the warm skin of my belly. I whimper at his touch and it encourages him, palms sliding around to the small of my back and pushing me harder against him.

 

It is dizzying but I don’t pull away, instead circling my arms around his neck and pulling him closer, hitching a knee around his hips. It is not enough; he pushes me against the door again and I use it as leverage, winding both my legs around him and shimmying up him like a tree. He groans, thrusting against me—

 

We have…never been like this before, even our most passionate kisses chaste in the face of whatever this is. I feel like I will suffocate if I don’t breathe soon but I can’t pull away; he must feel the way my heart is racing because he moves his mouth away from mine, trailing open mouthed kisses across my jaw, down my neck to the spot on my clavicle he always favored.

 

He sucks hard at my skin and I moan again. “You’ll—leave a mark,” I pant, curling my fingers into his hair despite my protests.

 

“Good,” he says. My short nails scratch against his scalp and he chuckles darkly; I can feel his teeth against my skin. I close my eyes at the sensation and when I open them again the compartment is dark.

 

“Peeta?” I ask breathlessly. He pulls away long enough to look around and I see his face fall in disappointment.

 

“We’re almost there,” he mutters. His head falls forward, resting dangerously close to my breasts. I’m suddenly embarrassed and I try to detangle myself, choking as I unwind my legs and slide down him. His eyes find mine in the dim light, his pupils blown wide. After a few seconds the room is bright again and he steps away, his hands sliding back down to rest on my hips over my clothes.

 

“Please let me help you.” Peeta’s blue eyes are so sweet and earnest, it is almost painful to look straight into them.

 

“I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do,” I tell him honestly. He pulls me close again, swallowing my slight frame in his embrace. I feel him press a light kiss to my hair.

 

“I don’t think there is a right thing to do now.”

 

I don’t say it, but I think he might be right.

 

. . .

 

The prep team they have assigned to me flitter around like incessant birds. They haven’t stopped their chatter since they stripped me of my clothes and saw the mark Peeta left on my collar bone, catcalling and wagging suggestive, outrageously plucked brows at me. They kept it up as they waxed off every bit of hair on my body below my eyebrows, completely oblivious to my embarrassment.

 

“We can cover it up, dear,” Octavia reassures me when I finally ask them about it, but she winks at the other two as if it’s cute I could be worried about such a small thing. It is humiliating, for such a private thing to be so out in the open, but they babble kindly as if it is the last thing on earth I should be concerned about.

 

They go on and I listen absentmindedly; they are ridiculous and selfish but kind in their own way, like silly, frivolous pets. They carefully preserve my mother’s braid, smoothing a wax over my hair to make it shine. They pluck and paint and polish, smiling at my grimaces. When they are done they step back, beaming at me.

 

“It’s as good as you’re going to get without any enhancements,” Venia says regretfully. The man, Flavius, rolls his eyes and winks at me.

 

“Just wonder, what will Peeta think when he sees you like this?” They all smile knowingly and I feel my cheeks turn hot. Before they can see my frown they flutter out of the room, just as chatty going as they were coming. I’m left in a thin gown, shaking with nerves as I sit on the cold bed and wait for my stylist, trying to remember the things Peeta said about him last year when he came home.

 

His name is Cinna. Although he was not Peeta’s stylist, he was the one who came up with idea for the flames, the element that drew attention to him right away. It is light years away from the coal dust sprinkled over naked bodies of years past, or clunky mining outfits with pitiful little helmets, but I am left with an anxious feeling in my stomach. It is hard to imagine someone who won’t make me completely ridiculous, especially after meeting my prep team who spent at least five minutes lamenting that they couldn’t bejewel the skin around my eyes.

 

The precious time alone suddenly ends when the door opens and a man steps in; for all I’ve been expecting he is surprisingly normal, dressed in simple black clothes and devoid of any flashy alterations, plain except for the soft gold lining gentle green eyes.

 

“Cinna?” I ask, hoping he’s not just an attendant sent to fetch me. He smiles, nodding as he looks me over. He gestures for me to stand up, walking around me and taking me in.

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Katniss Everdeen,” Cinna says with a smile that seems surprisingly sad. “Only good things,” he adds at the surprised look on my face. He puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes gently. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

 

And as he guides me out of me room, I am grateful that he doesn’t mention the tears in my eyes.

 

. . .

 

When I see Madge for the first time that evening, stroking the main of a stark black horse, it is like looking at a strange sort of storybook creature. Like a character on a Capitol television program that reminds me of someone I once knew.

 

I wonder if that’s what I look like too.

 

Her eyes meet mine for the first time in what seems like forever as I approach. We are quite a spectacle in our matching outfits, tight black bodysuits that cling uncomfortably close. While my hair is still in the braids my mother so carefully wove, Madge’s blonde hair is full and streaming like a halo around her head, gleaming in the bright Capitol lights; she’s always been so careful and plain in the way she dresses, it’s been easy to miss how pretty she is. But when she smiles, it is the Madge I’ve always known, uncomfortable and fidgeting at the unwanted attention.

 

“How far do you think we’d make it if we ran?” I ask wryly, moving beside her and shifting awkwardly in the tight, shiny outfit. Madge snorts.

 

“Considering I can barely even breathe, not far.” I smile at her and she looks down, as if remembering that we’re not going in this together. Cinna approaches with a tall blonde woman, who must be Madge’s stylists.

 

“Feeling alright, ladies?” he asks, looking us over critically. He brushes a hair out of my face and back into place, the touch unusually comforting.

 

Madge shrugs. “Ready to get this over with, I guess.” I nod in agreement.

 

Cinna smiles sympathetically. “It will be a breeze,” he encourages. “Just smile, wave, keep your chins up,” he says, tapping mine with another smile as I look down. He presses a small remote into my hand. “Press this when you’re out of the gates,” he tells us.

 

Madge and I share a doubtful look. “And we’ll catch on fire?”

 

The woman, Portia, winks at us. “Something like that.”

 

And then somehow — the trumpets play and it is time to begin, the other tributes already streaming out of the holding place we’re in. I climb into the carriage assigned to our district and Madge stumbles in after me, flinching when I grab her elbow to steady her. I frown but let go anyhow, placing my hands instead on the bar in front of us. The carriage jolts forward and we are moving, slowly; Madge nudges me at the gate and I press the button Cinna gave us.

 

In an instant we are transformed — not so obviously on fire like Peeta last year, but smoldering like embers, the suits turning us into live coals. Although other designers have tried to utilize the same techniques that made 12 so popular last year it falls flat in the face of this. I catch our faces on screen, faces haloed by the flickering lights. I remember the way I was comforted by seeing Peeta last year and think of Prim back home; I smile, beaming at the crowd and waving in every direction, reminding myself that it is all for her. Madge follows suit and the crowd goes wild for us, shrieking and throwing flowers in our path.

 

In the growing darkness we are irresistible, receiving far more than 12’s usual share of camera time. It is not until President Snow addresses us that the cameras finally pan away from us; something cold pinches inside of my gut at the sound of his voice, the sight of his cool smile on screen seeming to pierce right through me. I imagine how happy he is to see me out here; our popularity is no threat in the face of our imminent death. I glance over at Madge but she is looking straight ahead at the screens, her face a blank mask.

 

The anthem plays and the horses jerk us forward again, taking us around the City Circle amid still more applause. When we are back in the Remake Center it is hard to miss the stares of the other girls, some terrified, some openly hostile, some who look plain awed. Our team is waiting for us and the moment I step out of the cart Peeta is there, gripping my hand tightly. I try to pull away but he shakes his head minutely, squeezing harder. It is impossible to miss Madge’s sigh as she steps down beside me.

 

“You were both wonderful,” Effie glows, touching our cheeks affectionately and preening like a proud purple bird. She is oblivious to the tension that runs rampant in the room but Haymitch takes one look around and sweeps us toward the elevators, an arm wrapped protectively around Madge’s shoulder despite her obvious distaste.

 

When we are all on our floor — “The penthouse,” Effie says as she points out the rich décor proudly — they show us to our rooms and let us clean up before it is time to eat. And if the food on the train seemed rich this is an entire new experience, delicate salads and fresh, exotic fruits followed by a tender meat I’ve never had before drenched in a thick, delicious sauce. I eat until I am bursting and then they bring out a decadent dessert, a flaming cake that makes Peeta frown.

 

The meal is spent with the team praising our success; they toast Cinna and Portia’s genuis, drink in honor of Haymitch and Peeta’s victories. At this Madge sets down her napkin, leaving her dessert unfinished, finally turning to me.

 

“I wonder if they’ll drink to one of us next year.” She says it quietly but the whole table hears, the mood falling flat in an instant. I know it is dramatic but I stand up anyway, pushing my chair back and leaving. When I am in my room I strip down again, slipping into the sheets once more in only my underwear. Someone knocks on the door but I don’t get up; tonight, however, the door swings open.

 

The bed dips down beside me, but Peeta doesn’t touch me. “You okay?”

 

I shrug, the tops of my shoulders peeking out from under the sheets, rolling over until my face is pressed into my pillow. “She hates me.” My voice is muffled but I know he hears me by the way he sighs sadly, his hand reaching out to rub circles on my back through the sheet.

 

“She doesn’t hate you,” he promises gently. “She just doesn’t want to die. It’s…an impossible situation.”

 

I roll back over to face him and the sheet dips low. It is impossible to miss the way his eyes widen even in the darkness. His hand jerks back as if he’s been scalded but I scoot closer until our knees touch through the covers.

 

“I don’t want to die either.”

 

Peeta opens his mouth again but before he makes any promises he can’t keep I pull him forward, stopping his empty words with kisses that mean something. He melts against me and when his arms wrap around me it’s impossible to miss the way he shivers at the feel of my bare skin. Somehow he finds his way under the sheets, one of his legs slipped in between mine.

 

“Katniss,” he whispers, and I smile a little at the hoarseness of his voice. “I should go.” He doesn’t resist when my fingers glide under the hem of his shirt, tugging it away from him and up over his head. I shake my head and he leans back in, kissing me hotly. His hands find the clasp of my bra and hesitate, so I reach around to guide him. He freezes when it releases, then slowly pulls it away.

 

“Stay with me,” I plead. It is easy for once to admit that I can’t face this alone.

 

He closes his eyes and swallows hard, and when they blink open again it is almost impossible to see the blue of his irises around his dilated pupils.

 

“Always,” he promises. Then he crushes me against him, the feeling of his skin against mine enough to make me gasp. And then there are no more words.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued kindness and patience :) I was hesitant about the...progression of their relationship in this chapter, so I'd really appreciate your thoughts on that! Feel free to follow me on tumblr: swishywillow.


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